The Beast of Baskerville
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: 15th Century/fairy tale AU. John Watson comes to the village of Baskerville seeking shelter with his sister, only to find himself embroiled in a grisly murder. As the villagers point to a local werewolf legend, the odd but brilliant friar, Brother Sherlock, disagrees, and soon he and John are on the case- that is until Inquisitor James Moriarty arrives, more terrible than any beast
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Beast of Baskerville

**Author:** Mildredandbobbin

**Rating: M**

**Characters/Pairings: **John/Sherlock, Harry/Clara, Anderson/Sally, Angelo/OFC, John/Sarah, John/Mary, Molly, Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Mrs Hudson, Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran, Henry Knight, Louise Mortimer, Irene Adler, Sally Donovan, other characters from the Hounds of Baskerville.

**Content/warnings:** Murder, character death, torture, violence, medieval attitudes towards women and sexuality, intolerance, sexism, homophobia, sexy times, medieval Christian themes and terminology, blasphemy, anachronisms. Any other warnings will be listed on each chapter as appropriate.

**Summary:** 15th Century/fairy tale AU. An invalided John Watson comes to the isolated village of Baskerville seeking shelter with his sister, only to find himself embroiled in a grisly murder. As the villagers point to a local werewolf legend, the odd but brilliant friar, Brother Sherlock, disagrees, and soon he and John are on the the trail of a real human murderer. As the killer takes another victim, fear and suspicion grips the village, culminating in the arrival of Inquisitor, Friar James Moriarty, who proves more terrible than any supernatural beast.

**Betas: **Big, enormous thanks to my support team of beta readers, feedback readers, medieval fact checkers, Brit pickers and cheerleaders: Tsylvestris, Mojoflower, Mid0nz, Kikislasha (Official Artist, squee!), aranel_parmadil, unduneljay and Mr Bobbin (omg he read it) who between them have spurred me on, made this much richer, more accurate and all round better. Thanks you guys, you are all awesome, I really appreciate it. All mistakes of course are my own.

**Author's notes:** What started in conception as a Red Riding Hood (2011 movie) crossover has become a pastiche of Sherlock, The Name of the Rose, The Wife of Martin Guerre and the Red Riding Hood movie, and is a little less fairy tale and lot more medieval whodunnit. Stealing lines from Sherlock, story from Sherlock, ACD and Red Riding Hood and concepts from The Name of the Rose and Martin Guerre. Thanks also to Quiet Time for generously forgiving me for ending up writing a medieval AU too. Meta post available on my LJ.

**Cover image art** by the very talented **BlueStoneArcher** - thankyou! Please also see the wonderful pic of Sherlock and John in the cart by **Kikislasha** at kikislasha . livejournal 7340 . html

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**The Beast of Baskerville**

**Chapter 1**_: Whether Witches can by some Glamour Change Men into Beasts. (Index, Question X, Malleus Maleficarum)_

_Once upon a time..._

_...1489..._

_...or thereabouts..._

The road from Lauriston was barely a cart track this far into the woods. John followed along in the gloom, only occasional speckles of sunlight breaking through the thick canopy overhead. The air was heavy and dank, and there was moss growing thick on the rocks and roots fencing the road. The damp was not good for his shoulder, nor his leg for that matter, damn the contrary limb. A ball of iron from a hand cannon had pierced his shoulder and somehow also rendered him lame, a deep, dull ache hobbling him whenever he put weight on it for more than a moment and often even when seated.

He leaned heavily on his staff now, favouring his aching leg. His body screamed for him to stop, rest a while, but it was still a goodly way to his destination and it was already after midday. A warm place to sleep and something cooked for his supper would be ideal; he did not fancy spending yet another night shivering on the road with only the dark and creatures of the night for company.

The rattle of an approaching cart broke the stillness, sending birds scattering with loud cries of complaint. John stepped to the side, watching for the approaching vehicle and hoping to hitch a ride for some of the way.

The cart appeared through the trees, a single horse drawing its load at a slow and steady pace, the best the winding, pitted track allowed. The cart drew level with John and he walked beside the driver, a rotund fellow with a pleasant moon-face and spectacles. A merchant, by the looks of his clothing, with his full, fur-lined robe, embroidery on his shirt, and pleating on his fashionably short doublet. Multi-coloured hose reached to his waist and a codpiece completed the outfit.

John brushed down his plainer, serviceable garb: dark-coloured, loosely fitted overgown, belted at the waist; underneath, a plain linen shirt; and hose that reached only to his hip and fastened to his breeches. He knew he looked respectable but poor, but after all, that was what he was.

"Good morrow," said John.

"It is at that. Need a lift then?" the driver asked in a friendly tone.

John nodded. "I do, to Baskerville, if you're going so far."

"Climb on up with the Little Brother there, then," said the driver, indicating the back of the cart with a tilt of his head. It was then John noticed the grey-robed friar seated on the back, behind the trunks and crates, his hood pulled low, hands steepled together, apparently deep in holy thought. John stopped, letting the cart draw past, then tossed his staff and pack onto the back, took hold of the rail, and hauled himself up into the moving cart with a grunt. He fell heavily and lay for a moment before attempting to move, leg throbbing with the effort.

Catching his breath, John sat up and shifted to rest his back against the wooden side of the cart. He looked up and found the Franciscan watching him with an imperious expression, penetrating blue eyes, oddly angular above sharp features and a wide mouth. John drew himself up and stared back, not about to be cowed by any man, robe or not.

"Good day, Brother," he said, courtesy costing nothing.

"Granada or Naples?" responded the friar in a deep baritone.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Granada or Naples?"

John blinked, taking a moment to understand the man's question. "Granada. Sorry, how did you-?"

"I'll speak with Angelo, the innkeeper at the Venetian's Rest; you wouldn't be able to afford his tariff normally, but for me he'll find you somewhere to sleep within your means."

"Sorry - who -" John shook his head. "I don't even know your name-"

"I know you're an invalided soldier, recently returned from fighting in the Iberian peninsula, you've an arrow wound in the shoulder but it's made you lame as well - a sickness of the brain, not the limb, some have suggested devilry so you wear an amulet of angelica root, juniper and rue about your neck, take it off, it's useless, it won't help your limp and it stinks. Baskerville isn't your birthplace but you've a relative living there, a brother or sister, who isn't expecting you. You'll need somewhere to stay tonight but you've very little money, ergo my suggestion. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" The man quirked the corner of his wide, full mouth into a sardonic smile. "Friar Sherlock Holmes."

"Uh, John, John Watson. How did you know- all that?" If the man hadn't been a Franciscan, John would have thought he had the Sight.

"Obvious." He snorted. "The shoulder wound is easy - the way you hold yourself, your actions, the favouring of your left side. As for the nature of your limp, you forget it when distracted. You're not accustomed to being lame, so it's a recent injury, and if it had occurred at home you'd never have left. If it had been from labour you'd have been given other duties, you wouldn't be travelling, villeins don't travel to work land elsewhere. So, wounded by misadventure. Hunting? No, unlikely. Again, why would you be travelling? So, in battle or an altercation."

John realised he was staring only when the Franciscan's gaze flickered down to John's hands, his throat and then returned to his face. "You're from around here, there's still the local twang to your accent that twelve - no, thirteen years couldn't erase, and yet your skin is brown. You've been in a climate far sunnier than this. The wounding is fairly recent, I'd say about a year ago, long enough to heal and travel the distance from either Iberia or the Italian peninsula. Your hands are used to manual labour, so not a merchant or scholar; but aren't the hands of a villein or serf, and your cloak is not that of a beggar. You are wearing a red hood, the colour of the Duke of Northumberland, who was recently engaged in wars against Granada and the Ottomans in Naples. So. Soldier. Serving in either Granada or Naples."

John sucked in a breath. Laid out like this, the process was astonishing.

"He does this all the time," the merchant called over his shoulder with a wry chuckle. "Don't take offence."

The Franciscan ignored him.

"And Baskerville is the last village along this road. At your pace you'd have arrived after dark; you don't know that they would never admit you late this time of the month, so you weren't born there. You must be going to relatives, given your situation; and the fact that no one has come to meet you means you don't know exactly where they live to send word. Not parents, then, but close to you. A sibling. Oh, and you've been working with the field hospital, healing the wounded yourself - your wound was expertly treated and although you're a common soldier, you were close enough to decent help to ensure you didn't die. It's simple to those who observe."

John stared at the friar, awed. "That was...amazing."

The friar looked suddenly, oddly, pleased. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"Oh?" John frowned. "What do they normally say?"

"Usually they cross themselves and spit." He smiled at John and then turned his face forward, obscured by his cowl. John shook his head and grinned and then looked at his leg and the amulet about his neck. He lifted the small bag of herbs and gave it a cursory sniff. The rue was a tad pungent, to be honest.

Suddenly the friar turned back. "Did I get anything wrong?"

John considered the question. "I was in Spain, I was a stretcher bearer and was shot while carrying a man to the medical tent; I would have bled out except it's who you know, isn't it, and for some reason the other orderly thought it more important to save my sorry arse than the poor bugger we'd been carrying. I've been away for thirteen years, and it's my sister I'm looking for; Baskerville is my brother-in-law's village. You were wrong about one thing though: it was a ball from a hand cannon, not an arrow."

"There's always something," the friar declared, but his expression grew curious at the mention of the new weaponry. "A hand cannon, you say? What sort of ball? Would you say the wound was cleaner or worse than an arrow wound?"

"Iron; and I can't compare the two from my own experience, thank God, but it went in clean and came straight out, and took a large chunk of flesh with it on the way. I've seen arrow wounds that were worse and ones that were better. It depends on the location of the wound and the pellet used in the weapon."

The friar looked fascinated. "A study of the effects of different types of ammunition on the wounds of men in battle would be exceedingly interesting," he said. "Perhaps - if one were to use a deer carcass..."

John shook his head and laughed hollowly. "You do what you want, but I pray to Saint Adrian that I never set eyes on those accursed weapons or the Devil's siege engines again. The noise, Brother, is worse once you come to know what it heralds."

The friar looked at him closely for a moment but he said nothing more and turned to look ahead again.

They passed the rest of the journey in silence, except for the few words John exchanged with the driver, a cloth merchant named Michael Stamford. The sun was beginning to slip behind the great mountain range that loomed in the west, bringing dusk and night earlier than it ought when the woods parted and they entered first a section of cultivated land and finally the clearing of common land that encircled the village of Baskerville. There was a high fortified wall made of oak about the village and the guards on the gate shut it soon after the cart rolled through.

Inside, the village was like any other of its size and remote location: wattle and daub huts, animals shelters and pens; a few newer, larger stone and timber buildings; and the looming presence of a church at one end of the village green. John noted a blacksmith, wheelwright, and a bakery as they drove past. The merchant pulled his cart to a halt outside the Venetian's Rest, the only inn in the village as far as John could tell. It was built in the modern fashion of half stone and half timber, although the roof was still thatched rather than tiled as John had seen in grander towns.

"Here we are," said Michael. John threw his pack and staff from the cart and climbed down, then picking up his staff, turned and offered his hand to Brother Sherlock. The friar waved him away and leapt from the cart easily, a case in one hand. John found himself face to shoulder with the Franciscan and had to tilt his head back to meet the other man's eyes; John prided himself on being of only average shortness, but Brother Sherlock was a good half a head taller than him at least. The man stared down at him, even more imperious from that vantage point.

"Come, John, I'll introduce you to Angelo."

John turned and thanked the merchant, who was busy talking to a stable hand about his cart and wares, and followed the friar into the inn.

The innkeeper, a rotund man with dark hair and a short greying beard, offered the Franciscan an effusive welcome, clapping him on the back and herding him to a table in the common room. "This man, this man," he said to John. "He saved me."

John looked at the friar. He had lowered his cowl once inside and the dark tonsured curls that framed his face made the contrast between pale skin and startlingly blue eyes even more marked.

"I was able to prove his innocence in a case of murder. Three years ago there was a spate of particularly vicious assassinations and Angelo was framed; I was able to prove that he was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking. Certain parties were unhappy with this result so I helped relocate Angelo and his wife here."

"This man, he cleared my name," said Angelo as he steered them inside the inn and into the common room.

"I cleared it a _bit_; you still can't set foot in Venice in the foreseeable future. We both require accommodation."

"Of course, for you, my home is your home, no charge. And your friend? Yes? I have a good room. Together?" Angelo seated them at a table and clicked his fingers to a woman at the bar.

"No," said John quickly. No. The last thing he needed was a friar witnessing the devilry and terrors that assailed him every night. "No, it's - no, separate rooms, please. I can pay," he added. One more night at least before his coin ran uncomfortably low. He hoped Harriet was indeed still in this village.

"No charge! If it wasn't for this man, I would have been hanged," Angelo exclaimed.

"Technically you were, it just wasn't you at the gallows that day," replied the friar.

The woman came over with a tray carrying two drinks. She was tall and shapely with dark hair and handsome features. Angelo put his arm around her waist and gave a squeeze. She slapped his hand away and placed the drinks on the table. "My wife thanks him too, don't you, Rosa?" Angelo said.

"Oh, Maria! Every night, I say a prayer for good Brother Sherlock. Without him my Angelo would be dead, and I'd have had to sell myself on the streets of Venice to put food in my mouth."

"And nobody would want that!" laughed Angelo, earning him a fierce glare from his good wife before she turned on her heel and walked off. Angelo bustled off after her, calling apologies and declarations of adoration.

John took a sip of the rich ale Rosa had brought and sighed, a close approximation to contentment. The friar watched him over the rim of his mug as he took a drink himself.

"All right," John said. "How did you prove he wasn't a murderer, then?"

"You really want to know?"

John nodded. "I do."

The friar hesitated. "Very well," he said, and began the tale. It took nearly an hour in the telling and two more mugs of the ale, and when he was finished John felt as if his brain were struggling to catch up. "Brilliant," he said, shaking his head in admiration. "Utterly brilliant."

The friar looked pleased. "Well," he said, shrugging. "It was patently unbelievable that a man like Angelo could commit such sophisticated crimes. Had it been possible, I would have stayed in Venice and discovered the true culprit but my - but Angelo's relocation forced me to leave."

"Amazing," said John, not for the first time that hour.

The friar's gaze pinned him. "It's my talent, John; I observe and I deduce meaning from what I observe. It is my purpose to seek the truth."

John stared back into distinctive blue-green eyes and felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed and moistened his lips and was about to say...something...nothing, when Angelo reappeared.

"Well Brother, another ale for you and your friend?" It was quite dark now and the inn was full of the noise of locals enjoying company and refreshment.

"No, thank you, Angelo, not for me, I must retire. My _viola __di __braccio_ calls."

"You and your music. Play! Play away! Master Watson, I will put you in the attic far away from that racket."

"Goodnight, John," said the friar, standing to follow Angelo to his room.

"Goodnight, Brother," said John and found himself feeling very fortunate indeed to have met such a singular character, and felt as well the pleasant sensation of not minding at all if their paths were to cross again. He thought about retiring as well except his stomach made itself known and he realised it had been some time since he'd eaten. The merchant reappeared and insisted on taking supper with John. As they ate, the sound of the _viola di braccio _drifted down from an upper room above the din of the inn's evening patrons. Food, convivial conversation and some wine later, John felt happy and and good-humoured, he went upstairs to the small attic room Angelo provided.

There was a mattress raised up on three planks, complete with plain pillow, blanket and coverlet. He leaned his staff against the wall, took off his cloak and boots and relieved himself in the night soil pot before settling down under the covers, grateful for the comfort of a bed for the first time in over a week. John stretched and shut his eyes, luxuriating; a decent bed was never something to take for granted. But, perhaps, this would be the last of his wanderings. His journey was over, he would find Harry tomorrow, and his life would begin anew.

From one of the rooms below he heard Brother Sherlock's _viola di braccio_ singing a lullaby, as if to soothe him personally off to sleep. He would make the best of it, here in this village where men such as Michael Stamford and Friar Sherlock passed through; perhaps it would not be as desolate and pointless a life as he'd feared. With that comforting thought he drifted off to sleep.

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John sat up on the rough straw mattress, disorientated, waiting for his heart to slow, his breath to calm. It wasn't the nightmare that had wakened him, no, that was still a confusing morass of gasping breath, sick horror and a rising fear that he tried to damp down, tried, before it would inevitably, inexorably grip him. The feeling of impotence and helplessness had only just been starting to overwhelm him, above it all the press of bodies and an agonising feeling of being restrained and he _couldn't move_ and they were coming, coming and the noise - God the noise, Holy Mother - But he hadn't been _there _yet: that awful, crushing point when he'd _know, know _he was going to die and he wouldn't be able to move and wouldn't be able to wake and he'd want to throw up because, Jesus Christ, the dark red _gore_, too much, too much damage and he would choke on his own blood and then _finally _his voice would work and his own scream of blinding terror and revulsion would wrench him back to wakefulness and he would vomit. Instead he just sat in the dark, sweaty and breathless, clenching the covers.

So no, this had been something different.

There had been a sound, sharp and unnatural in the still of the night. He was in a small attic room in the inn. It was nearly pitch black, except for the lighter shade of dark of the window. For a moment he thought perhaps he had dreamt it, then he heard it again: a scream, desperate and full of terror. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. It came again and then cut off suddenly. A moment later came the blood-curdling sound of a wolf's howl, close to the village, followed by another.

John threw back his blanket and, stiff from sleep, crawled over to the window, throwing open the shutter. There were voices below, and the sound of boots pounding on the hard packed earth of the village street. Torch and lantern light flickered and he made out the shapes of figures hurrying towards the village gate.

Fumbling in the dark, he pulled on his boots and cloak, his shoulder protesting this rude demand for action. He felt for his staff in the dark and his leg gave a twinge, the deep ache settling in as he got to his feet. Fingers falling to the hilt of his dagger at his waist, he opened the door to the narrow passage that ran outside the upper room.

There was light burning in the common room when John made his way there. The screaming had woken others in the inn; Angelo stood at the door, cudgel in hand, Rosa beside him, clutching her shawl about her shoulders and looking more displeased than afraid, Brother Sherlock and Michael Stamford were both there as well. The inn's other guests, a trio of middle-aged spinsters on pilgrimage with their balding chaperone, were all still abed.

John blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. "What's going on?"

"Master Watson!" cried Angelo, turning at his voice."What a sound, terrible, terrible," he said.

"Did I not say it wouldn't be long before a goat wouldn't satisfy its hunger?" Angelo's wife said, crossing herself and spitting onto the floor.

"Uh, what-" began John, looking among the assembled faces.

The Franciscan spoke without turning from his post at the window. "Lestrade and his fool have gone to investigate."

Angelo crossed himself and so did his wife.

"Bit of a upset, I must say," said the merchant to John. "I'm supposed to leave tomorrow but I can't see how I'll be in any fit state."

"Oh right," said John, only half paying attention. "Lestrade-?"

"They are coming back," cried Angelo, opening the door wider and peering out into the night.

John moved to the window beside the friar and saw one of the guards running towards them.

"A wolf has killed a girl!" the guard cried, seeing Angelo. "Send someone to wake the midwife then come, we need men and arms."

"Rosa, wake the boy, send him to Mistress Hooper's," Angelo ordered his wife.

"I can hear as well as you," snapped Rosa, but she hurried off into a backroom.

Angelo clutched his cudgel and hesitated at the door but Brother Sherlock was already at his side, pushing past him.

"Brother - no, you mustn't, it's not safe, Holy Mother -"

"Nonsense, if the girl has died she'll need to be shriven," replied the friar, pulling up his cowl and stepping out into the night.

Angelo took a breath and looked around the room. Michael flushed but did not volunteer. Angelo met John's eyes and his gaze fell to John's staff. John swallowed as the deep ache asserted itself. He clenched his teeth and shifted his weight, favouring the troublesome leg; what use would a lame soldier be on a wolf hunt?

"You sit down, Master Watson, rest your leg. Rosa will fetch you some broth when she returns."

"Curse my leg," John swore, perhaps louder than he intended, but Angelo was right. He looked around then sank heavily into a chair by the wall.

The friar ducked his head back around the door. "John, you're a soldier, one who's helped with the wounded."

"Yes," said John, looking up in surprise.

"Seen a lot of maimed bodies, terrible injuries? Death?" Brother Sherlock stepped back into the inn, his gaze sweeping over John in an assessing manner.

"Yes," said John getting to his feet, an odd flutter low in his belly.

"Plenty of misadventure too, I'd wager," said the friar, his expression brighter than was seemly.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John's veins were thrumming.

"Want to see some more?" The friar was barely a foot away, sharp gaze locked on John's. John stared back. The friar's features were peculiar and set him outside the ordinary - those angular eyes, bright and piercing, prominent cheekbones and a mouth that seemed too sensuous and decadent to be at home on a man sworn to poverty. And celibacy.

John wet his lips. "Oh God, yes."

The friar's lips twitched into a smile and he spun on his heel, and in a moment he was out the door, John hurrying after him. Angelo, snatching up a lantern, followed behind.

TBC

**AN: **I used Ariane DeVere's Sherlock transcripts (LJ) for dialogue and scenes borrowed from the show.


	2. Chapter 2

Big, enormous thanks once again to my beta readers, feedback readers, medieval fact checkers, Brit pickers, cheerleaders and husband: Tsylvestris, Mojoflower, Mid0nz, Kikislasha, aranel_parmadil, unduneljay and Mr Bobbin - an amazing, clever, generous bunch of folks who've made this far richer, more accurate and generally better than it would otherwise would have been. Thanks you lot. xo

Warnings for this chapter: some horror.

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**Chapter 2:** _Episcopus (XXVI, 5): Whoever believes that it is possible for any creature to be... transformed into any other shape or likeness, except by the Creator Himself...is without doubt an infidel, and worse than a pagan. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 1, Question X)_

John, Sherlock and Angelo crossed the village green, the space lit an eerie blue by moonlight, towards the gates of the high, sturdy palisade of oak that surrounded the small township. The village had been awakened, and there were lights shining in windows, the murmur of voices, the sound of doors opening, dogs barking.

"So, this wolf," said John. "It's a man-eater?"

It was a brisk night, with the chill of late autumn, and John was glad of his woollen cloak. His breath hung in the air and the sky was clear and bright with stars beneath the ripe yellow moon. There would be frost by morning.

"Not a wolf, Master Watson," said Angelo from behind him. "A man-wolf, a creature of the Devil."

"A werewolf?" John asked. A memory tugged at his mind, of a tale told to small children of this forest, these mountains. "_That_ wolf? The Beast of Baskerville? I remember hearing about it as a boy, but I thought it was just one of my Nan's stories."

"Nonsense and superstition," said Brother Sherlock, a dark shape in front of him.

John heard Angelo mutter a curse. "Devilry, Brother, you would not catch me spending a night in these woods. I've heard the beast - its howl is enough to make you pass water."

John shivered and touched his hand to his dagger, remembering the screaming and the lonely, spine-chilling sound of a howl close-by and loud. Whether it be cursed being or earthly wild creature about, John would sooner have a knife with him than not. He knew well enough the damage a hungry wolf could inflict on a village's sheep flock or goat herd, on horses even, or cows. He'd heard enough stories of shepherds' crofts ravaged, the occupants slaughtered in their beds along with their flocks; and he'd seen with his own eyes the creatures that followed the army, feasting with crows on the spoils of war, fat and bold but too well satisfied with the dead or nearly dead to bother with anyone able.

Torches burned in sconces by the now-abandoned gate and Sherlock pushed it open. They followed a glimmer of light and the sound of voices to the western side of the palisade. There was torchlight about two hundred feet from the wall, where the woods edged closest to the common land and there were no strips of cultivation. The ground was rough, grassy, with clods thrown up from the hooves of cattle and churned muddy after recent rainfall.

Two figures stood above a smaller shape, their torches held aloft, one had a sword drawn. Both turned sharply as Brother Sherlock and John, with Angelo puffing behind them, came close enough to be seen in the circle of light.

One of them, a long-faced man in the black robe and _cappa clausa_ of a priest marched over.

"You are not needed here, Friar," he snapped. "This poor soul's spiritual needs have already been seen to."

"Father Anderson, here we are again," replied Brother Sherlock.

The priest folded his arms. "A friar's prayers are good enough when there's none other to be had, Brother, but you're not a priest. Why don't you go do some good among the living like Saint Francis taught?"

Brother Sherlock glared at the priest. "I intend to; now hurry back to your bed, Father, your wench will be getting cold. I'm sure she's all a-tremble."

John looked between the two men. The priest drew himself up. "How dare -" But Brother Sherlock swept past, going straight to the body. John, keeping his expression neutral, followed him, hard on his heels.

"Father," said Angelo respectfully on his way past.

"Brother, what are you doing here?" asked the other man; Lestrade, John guessed. The silver-haired man had an attitude of command and his clothing indicated that he was a person of importance. "This is the Devil's doing." He glanced at the body, paled, and looked away again quickly.

"In my experience when the Devil has work to do he usually finds someone else to do it," murmured the Friar but Lestrade didn't seem to hear.

The guard who had come to the inn came running up, a folded litter under one arm.

"Sir," he said to Lestrade, holding it out.

"Well done, Dimmock, spread it out beside her; we'll both carry it."

Brother Sherlock was already crouching beside the victim. He crossed himself, then made the sign of the cross above her before murmuring a few words.

"Dear God," John breathed, crossing himself as well. He was hardened to the damage that could be done to the human body but the sight of the girl shook even him: hands folded neatly on her chest, eyes delicately closed, perfect and pale save for gaping gore at her belly, and throat and lower jaw torn through so viciously that her head had nearly come away from her body.

"The wolf has come again and broken its truce," Lestrade said between gritted teeth. "The time is long past to hunt it down."

Brother Sherlock glanced up. "This woman was murdered. I suggest you look for a more mortal cause before you start rushing to draw a conclusion."

"I know you're from the South, Brother," Father Anderson said with a sneer. "But you cannot seriously be suggesting you've never heard of the Beast of Baskerville?"

"I've heard of a ridiculous tale and I know the villagers here waste perfectly good goat meat once a month feeding wild beasts. We do not know yet that it was a mythical creature that killed this girl, although she's been mauled by a wolf, I'll grant you." Brother Sherlock gently lifted the woman's wrist, then turned her face. His hands, stained in parts with ink, ghosted over her gown, over several long tears rending the fabric at the bodice and skirt. He lifted her hands again, turning them and examining them closely.

"I must protest!" exclaimed Father Anderson. He turned to the older man. "Stop him, Master Lestrade, he's violating the dead!"

"If it was murder, Brother Sherlock will discover the culprit," said Angelo. "You should let him be, Master Lestrade."

"Do you have a purpose, Brother?" Lestrade asked.

"_Send forth thy light and thy truth, let them guide me,_" responded Brother Sherlock, quoting the Book of Psalms. "Master Watson, what are your thoughts?"

John nodded and crouched beside the friar. "Something's taken her throat, and there's the stomach wound, but there's not much blood. Should be more for so much damage - she must have been moved?"

"Good, John, carry on, what else?" The friar answered absently, as if he were only half listening.

John shook his head and tried again. "So...she's been moved, dragged here by the wolf?"

The friar lifted the victim's feet gently, and then examined the ground beneath them.

"And if it wasn't a wolf?" The friar turned to look at John, gaze keen and alight.

"Moved here _for _a wolf?" John suggested.

Brother Sherlock's lips quirked into something only like a smile, but his eyes, fixed on John's face for that instant, signaled his approval.

"I imagine if I were a wolf and idiotic villagers were foolish enough to feed me every month, I would stay close," said the friar. "A wolf howled after the screaming ended; whether or not the beast caused the screaming remains to be seen. The torches probably chased it away." He looked up at Lestrade. "Did you happen to take note of the way the girl was lying, before Anderson here saw fit to rearrange her?"

"Friar!" protested the priest again.

Lestrade frowned. "She was on her back, she's been barely moved. What are you saying, Brother?"

"That this girl was dead before whatever took her throat touched her."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Father Anderson. "We all heard the wolf. Our tribute is no longer enough. The creature lured the foolish girl out of the village with its false cunning and killed her."

"_The heart of him who has understanding seeks knowledge, but the mouths of fools feed on folly," _said Sherlock not looking up.

"Proverbs?" asked John, and the friar shot him a smile.

"Father Anderson is right," said Dimmock. "We paid the tribute not two nights ago. Why kill Mistress Mortimer?"

"You know her name?" Brother Sherlock asked.

"Louise Mortimer," said Lestrade, and Angelo gave an exclamation and began to recite his Paternoster.

"And why would Mistress Mortimer leave the village at this time of night?" asked Dimmock.

"Good! You're asking questions," muttered Brother Sherlock. "There's hope for one of you at least." He stood abruptly. "Who was guarding the gate tonight?"

Dimmock looked shifty and blushed. "I, it was I. I was asleep, but we normally do sleep: it's locked, no one can go through without our say-so."

The friar pinned him with his gaze. "The gate was unlocked when you awoke?"

The young man looked at his feet. "Yes."

"Master Watson, as a man who's cared for the wounded on the battlefield, how quickly would a woman of this size bleed out, die?"

"With these wounds, she would be dead in moments, choked as much as anything. With a slit throat, the count of two Ave Marias at most."

The friar stood for a moment, deep in thought, hands prayerfully pressed together. He turned towards Lestrade suddenly. "You are taking the body to the midwife for laying out? I'll speak with her in the morning."

He stood back then, looking out into the night, while John helped Lestrade and Dimmock move the body onto the litter. A sudden gust of air made the torches gutter, and when John looked up into the night he saw a dark cloud in the west slowly covering the stars. Other torches moved across the clearing as more villagers approached.

"Robert, Arthur, William," said Lestrade in greeting and was greeted with a chorus of "Master Lestrade". He hissed suddenly, "Henry-" and strode forward to steer one of the newcomers aside. Lestrade spoke in a low urgent voice and as Robert, Arthur and William approached the body and recognised the victim they seemed to realise why.

"The curse," breathed Robert.

"Quiet," snapped William. "Not in front of Henry."

"What is it?" John asked Dimmock in a low voice. "He's not family, is he?"

Dimmock's expression was tight and pained. "Henry Knight. He and Mistress Mortimer were betrothed. He'll be devastated."

John glanced towards Brother Sherlock and saw him taking note of their conversation. Suddenly Henry gave a terrible cry and struggled against Lestrade, who was trying to hold him back.

"No, NO, NO, not Louise! Not Louise!" he screamed. William and Robert helped Lestrade to subdue him and they brought him forward to view the body. He gasped and looked away, a hand to his lips. "Dear God, no, no, no." He turned back and put his hand to hers, then smoothed hair from her fair face. "Louise, oh God, I'm so sorry, forgive me," he sobbed.

"Come now, Henry, we'll take her inside," said Arthur, pulling the weeping man away.

"Come Master Knight, we'll take you home, a strong drink will do you wonders," said Angelo, helping Arthur to lead Henry away.

Lestrade and Dimmock handed their torches to John, then lifted the litter with the corpse and set off, Father Anderson leading the way with his torch, while Robert and William followed up at the rear carrying theirs.

"John, we'll stay here," the friar said quietly as the grisly procession set off, back to the village. The others seemed too preoccupied with the sad task at hand to notice that they waited behind.

John shivered at the chill breeze that was building into the storm on the horizon. He watched the torchlit procession grow smaller. Somewhere out in the woods a wolf howled. John rested his left hand on his dagger and held his torch aloft.

"But why not a wolf? I don't mean a werewolf, although, to be sure, something lured her outside and then tore out her throat. Isn't that what werewolves do?"

Brother Sherlock _tsked_ irritably. "Her hands - there was no fur caught on her fingers, her nails. If she were being attacked from the front, she should have held up her hands defensively, or at least grabbed at the beast as it attacked her. Her hands were clean. Add to that the lack of blood, which you yourself noted - the body has been moved _post mortem_, yet it hadn't been dragged, the dress isn't marked, there isn't any dirt or mud in her hair or scraped up on her heels - again, not a wolf. Someone killed her, cut her throat probably, although poison should not be ignored, and then carried the body to the edge of the woods for a wolf to eat - a plausible scapegoat, fitting given it's recent diet, that was sure to be believed. True, it could be a shape-shifter who murdered her in man form, then turned into a beast to feast on her, but let us eliminate the possible before assuming the implausible. After all, if we follow the common axiom, _Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate_ - plurality must never be posited without necessity - we will know that in order to distinguish between two suppositions, we must shave away unnecessary assumptions." The friar had spoken rapidly, listing off each point without drawing breath. It was John who breathed in deeply when he finished, as if taking in air for the both of them.

"Amazing," he marvelled.

Brother Sherlock shot him an arrested look as he continued. "But the timing - it was five, perhaps ten _pars minuta prima_ at the most between hearing the scream and the body being found," he said using the new method of dividing the hour into sixty parts. "The murderer would have had to move quickly to carry the body to the edge of the clearing and escape and have a beast start to feed. How long would it take a wolf to do that damage? But that's not what we need to know; no, what we need to know is who and why, the how will help us find that."

John gaped at the friar for a long moment. "All right," he said, clearing his throat. "Well, we know her name to begin with. I suppose if we ask around we can find out who her friends were, and if there was anyone who wished her harm."

Brother Sherlock smirked triumphantly. "We know more than that, John, she was twenty-three or -four, betrothed, of a good family, but kept house for someone, her father probably, he's a blacksmith."

"I see. How did you know all that?"

"Age is easy when you've a trained eye. Dimmock supplied the information that she was betrothed to Henry Knight. Her clothing is of reasonable quality, new, unmarked, trimmed with lace and embroidery, yet her hands are worn - not enough for her to have been a servant but more than enough to know she manages a household. She wears the symbol of Saint Clement around her neck, the patron saint of blacksmiths, why else if not for her father? There is more but I will need to speak to the midwife to confirm it after she lays out the body."

"Fantastic, truly, fantastic," murmured John, astounded by the Franciscan's rapid explanations.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" the friar asked suddenly.

"Sorry, I'll...be quiet." John felt his face flush.

Brother Sherlock frowned. "No...it's fine," he said, gaze flickering over John's face.

John cleared his throat and looked away. "What are we doing now then?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Examining the place of death more thoroughly. Although there won't be much left to see." Brother Sherlock looked around, irritation clear on his expression. "I knew Lestrade was a fool but I didn't take him for an imbecile. The way they've blundered around, it will be nearly impossible to read anything in this muck; they've obliterated all the evidence."

He held his torch high as he crouched low and peered at the dirt and grass around where the body had lain.

"Useless," he snapped finally. "If there were wolf tracks, they've been all but destroyed." He paced off ten feet towards the wall. "Here!" he exclaimed. "Blood. Leading..." He walked in the direction of the village. "Back to the wall. Yes. John - this way."

"She was killed here," he declared, stopping at a spot against the wall. "Then see...here, blood but not enough for a disembowelment...the blood almost stops but, here...he started carrying her. If it was a mere beast she would have been dragged along. So in the space of ten _pars minuta prima_, the girl screams, is killed, carried to the edge of the woods, left for wolves to conceal the act, and our murderer...what...where does he go? Into the woods, back around the wall - tracks, I need tracks." He strode back towards the place where the girl was found, and taking the torch searched the surrounding grass. "Here!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Footprints - a man's, perhaps Lestrade's or the guards, but - no, different -"

"Prints? Maybe it was a shape-shifter?"

"I thought better of you, John, than to be susceptible to that nonsense. No, an ordinary man who had the means, motive, and will to kill a defenceless woman - isn't that monstrous enough?"

"You really think it was a man who did this?"

"Or a woman," said Brother Sherlock dismissively. "If you wish to be specific. We can't discount that, although I find it doubtful; perhaps a female with an accomplice. Some strength of arm would be required."

Holding the torch low, the friar followed a trail leading back to the village wall, where it was obscured by other trails and tracks.

Finally he straightened, dusted his hands off and sighed. "There's nothing more to be seen. I need to talk to the midwife in the morning."

A wolf howled, closer than before, and it brought John back to himself. Outside their small circle of light, it seemed that there was movement in the darkness. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. "Right. Back to the inn?"

"Yes." The friar suddenly seemed to notice John. "You're still here?"

John looked at him incredulously. "Leave you out here to be eaten by wolves alone? Don't be daft." They started walking back towards the gate.

The corner of the friar's mouth quirked in amusement. "It would be rather inconvenient," he admitted. There was another howl, closer still.

"A little," agreed John, a feeling of recklessness in his chest. They held their torches out; Brother Sherlock fore, and John aft, as they made for the village gate, setting a steady but quick pace.

"Besides, I need to know who did it now, don't I? If it isn't a demonic beast," John called over his shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed on the darkness, his senses straining. He thought he saw the glow of eyes, but it was hard to hear over his own breath, his own pulse, the crackle of the torch flame. Then, there - the snap of a twig, a rustle, and then something between a whine and a growl, low and deep enough to send a shiver down John's spine and clench his belly. "Might want to pick up a the pace a bit," he said.

There was a crack of lightning and roll of thunder from the coming storm. John shot a glance over his shoulder; they were still thirty or feet from the gate. He saw Brother Sherlock look back at him, an unspoken question in his expression. John grinned in answer and then the two of them turned and made a dash for it, pelting over the rough ground.

The guard was not yet back on duty and the gate was closed but thankfully not locked. They tugged it open and flung themselves inside, slamming it shut behind them. John thrust his torch at Sherlock and dropped the heavy latch across the gate as Sherlock set the torches in empty sconces on the wall. They leaned against the solid wood, panting. Madness, utter madness. John turned his head towards Brother Sherlock and caught his eye, the mad bastard, and they broke into breathless laughter. From the other side of the gate John was sure he could hear snuffling and movement and then came a howl, far too close and far too loud.

"Oh God," said John, bending down, hands on knees, to catch his breath. "That was ridiculous."

Brother Sherlock pushed back his cowl. "It was not the most sensible activity, no."

"No, nope," agreed John. He straightened, breathing steadied now, and shook his head ruefully.

"Come on," he said, peeling himself off from the gate. Brother Sherlock complied, straightening his lanky form. The Franciscan flicked up the cowl of his robe as they fell into step together and started back across the village green. There was another flicker of light and an ominous rumble of thunder.

"Any ideas?" John asked, glancing at the sky.

The friar's face lit up at the mention of the murder. "Seven, no, eight, at this stage, but it is a mistake to propose an answer before one has all the details. You begin to twist what you know to suit your answer, instead of the answer to suit the detail."

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?" John said glancing at Brother Sherlock. At his words the friar's bright expression faded and John felt something sink inside.

"You think I'm heartless," Brother Sherlock said flatly.

John shook his head vehemently, wondering what he'd said to wipe the infectious enthusiasm from the other man's face. "No, I - I think you really enjoy the puzzle, finding the true villain. You should have been a magistrate, not a friar."

"It was my brother's choice, not mine. Holy orders run in the family. Besides, you need to be an upstanding burgher to be a magistrate; dull."

John laughed at that. "Because being a man of God is such a disreputable profession," he said, amused.

"I like my freedom, I enjoy travelling, learning, John; there is so much to_ know. _This is what I do: I travel, I learn, I find puzzles and I solve them_. _My order with its commitment to serving a community, not a monastery or hermitage, allows this. It's what I need; my mind grows anxious with nervous energy if I don't keep it occupied, I cannot tolerate boredom."

"I suppose you have the right profession then," said John.

Brother Sherlock shrugged. "My brother has a similar talent to me, of observation, linking minor pieces of information to form a whole, useful picture, but he chooses to spend his time at a scribe's desk, writing missives for the Holy Father."

"He's in Rome?"

"Yes. He would say he is a minor functionary in the Papal palace. The truth is, my brother _is_ the Papal palace."

John had nothing to say to that. He avoided religious politics as thoroughly as any common soldier could.

"Why are you here, though? What about Paris with its universities, or Rome? Surely this would have to be the most boring place to serve God that you could find."

"My brother again. You might have noticed that I speak my mind freely. That can be...problematic...in certain circles. So at the moment I've been sent to this region, well away from Church politics, and every now and then my brother gives me some errand to keep me occupied. I am on such an errand at the moment, but this is far more interesting. Ah, here we are," said the friar as they reached the door of the Inn. "You can thank me later."

John looked at him in surprise as he rapped sharply on the door. The knock was answered by Angelo himself, just as the heavens opened and rain started pouring down.

"Brother! Come in, come in, I was so worried, here warm yourself, Rosa will bring you cider - and here, Master Watson, your staff."

John froze as the wooden staff was thrust into his hand. His leg. His leg hadn't bothered him. He looked up at the friar in astonishment. The Franciscan beamed smugly.

"Thank you," John said, looking between Angelo and Brother Sherlock, and then down at his leg. He took a step - nothing, not a twinge.

"Ah, Rosa," said Brother Sherlock as Angelo's wife came in bearing two mugs of warm cider. "Thank you." He handed one of the cups to John, then took the other for himself.

The woman pinched his cheeks and patted him smartly on the bottom. "Anything for my Brother Sherlock," she said, whisking off into the back room again.

John grinned at the Franciscan's blush, took the cider and downed it gratefully, suddenly thirsty after the night's efforts, pulse racing with the excitement of adventure and the discovery that his limp had been overcome. Brother Sherlock took only a sip then set down the mug. He turned to John.

"I will visit the midwife at the third hour, and I should like your company, if you are free."

"I have to find my sister," noted John, reality returning.

Brother Sherlock waved the argument away. "I will help you with that afterwards," he said.

"Very well," said John, amused.

"At Terce then, good night, John."

"Goodnight, Brother Sherlock."

The Franciscan shook his head. "Just Sherlock."

John tilted his chin up to meet the friar's gaze. "All right; Sherlock," he said.

Despite the late hour, John couldn't fall asleep for some time. His pulse still raced and there was a sense of excitement and purpose that had been missing since the pellet took him in the shoulder on the battlefield. His leg, his _leg_, _cured - _ and with reason and distraction alone.

"Amazing," muttered John to himself. He reached for the bundle of herbs about his neck and tugged it free. He looked at the little pouch, its scent still pervasive and then, firmly tossed it onto the floor.

The village church bells chimed Matins, and with the groan made only by those who know they must awaken far, far too soon, John lay his head firmly on his pillow and willed himself to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **Huge thanks to Tsylvestris, Mojoflower, Mid0nz and Mr Bobbin, you guys go above and beyond and have polished this thing up beautifully. Of course I fiddle right up to the end, all mistakes and odd choices are my own. Big thanks also to aranel_parmadil, unduneljay and Ariadne_AU for cheering me on; Kikislasha for her amazing art and cheerleading and BlueStoneArcher for the lovely cover image. xo Thanks also to everyone who left lovely feedback, favourites, kudos etc, it feeds my addiction and makes this worth the effort :)

**Warnings for this chapter: **some gruesomeness.

Edited: The Fatima prayer has been changed to something less anachronistic *face palm* - Saint Bridget's Seventh Prayer.

* * *

**Chapter Three:**_ And our inquiry will first be general, as to the general conditions of women; secondly, particular, as to which sort of women are found to be given to superstition and witchcraft; and thirdly, specifically with regard to midwives, who surpass all others in wickedness. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 1 Question XI)_

John woke just as the church bells rang Terce. He groaned, but the memory of his appointment with the strange Franciscan friar soon had him on his feet and pulling on his cloak and boots. He reached for his staff and realised with a shot of pleasure that he no longer needed it. Sending up a quick prayer of thanks to Saint Adrian, he pulled open the door and in a moment he had bounded down the stairs to the common room of the inn.

Brother Sherlock was not to be seen there, so John hurried outside, only to nearly collide with him just beyond the door.

"Come, John, we haven't all day," the friar said, but looked pleased to see him all the same.

The midwife's house was not far away and John was not surprised that Sherlock seemed to find the way easily. The villagers of Baskerville were going about their day as they walked past houses and shops. A few people greeted the friar; many others watched them both curiously. They arrived at a small home, made of the same wattle and daub as most of the houses in the village, it was neat and well-kept and not far from the village church. A large tomcat lay by the door glowering at them and availing himself of the rare morning sun.

"Oh! You're Brother Sherlock!" said the woman who answered the door. She was young and pretty but had a timid, diffident air that may have had much to do with preoccupation rather than nerves, but was not helped by the drab brown dress she wore beneath her apron. Her brown hair was braided under a simple white cap. "You, um, I've seen you about the village. Oh, yes, silly of me, I'm the midwife, Molly Hooper. Master Lestrade said you'd come by today. Oh. You'll, um want to see Louise - um, here, um, this way."

Sherlock nodded. "Oh yes, you were in the marketplace, two months ago," he commented. He peered closely at Molly. "You were betrothed then."

Molly's face flamed. "Oh, um, yes - Jim - the molecatcher - he didn't, um, come back - so-"

"Molecatchers often don't," replied Brother Sherlock quirking a smile, apparently oblivious to Molly's stricken look. "Mistress Hooper, the body, if you would?"

Flustered, she led the way through her simple main room, as neat as the outside of the building. Baskets and utensils as well as a few pieces of handiwork adorned the walls next to drying herbs. She opened the door to a side room where the body, covered with a linen cloth, was laid out on a bed. Fragrant herbs were hung liberally about the room but still there was the all-too-familiar scent of death.

"Such a shame, oh, yes, here-" She suddenly noticed John. "Oh, and who are you?"

"This is John; he's with me," said Sherlock, already whipping the sheet from the victim's face.

"Oh, I see; hello," said Molly, giving him a tight, bright smile. "You're helping Brother Sherlock, then?"

"Uh, yes," said John.

"I hear he's very clever," Molly said, her gaze rising to the friar's face. "You must be pleased to be able to assist him."

"Enough chatter, Mistress Hooper; have you finished laying out the body?"

Chastened, she returned to the task at hand. "Yes, a...a wolf, was it? I mean, I heard - but, it, hm, it doesn't really fit, I don't know-"

"Sentences Mistress Hooper, sentences," said Sherlock. He spoke slowly then, as if to the deaf or stupid: "Did you notice anything of import when you prepared the body for burial?"

Her hands fluttered at her apron. "Oh, yes, um - well- this be not really my place to say, but, um...will this be confidential, Brother?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Mistress Hooper...what?"

"Louise was with child, I knew that already because she'd come and seen me, but yes, well, the baby's gone now, isn't it. Terrible, really, if you think about it too much." She indicated the victim's lower half, the torn belly.

"Gone?" John frowned, then felt sick as realisation dawned. "Oh. Right. The wolf."

"As I suspected," said Sherlock. "Did she say who the father was?"

"Henry, of course; they couldn't wait - it's not a sin, not really, Brother, they're betrothed." Her eyes shot to the Friar's face and she nibbled her bottom lip in concern.

"The Church tends to ignore these little irregularities. One presumes they would make the marriage official before the child arrived." Sherlock made the sign of the cross above the corpse. "___O Iesu, fons inexhaustae pietatis, qui ex intimo dilectionis affectu in cruce dixisti: 'Sitio.', scilicet salutem generis humani, accende, quaeso, cordium nostrorum desideria ad omne opus perfectum, et sitim carnalis concupiscentiae, aestum mundanae delectationis in nobis penitus refrigera et exstingue. Amen_," he prayed. "Was it a long betrothal?"

"Master Mortimer kept delaying, the dowry was quite high."

Sherlock nodded. "Did you notice anything else?" he asked.

"Yes, I - there's something here -" She went to Louise's body and turned her head gently, pointing below the left earlobe. "See - a knife incision, not teeth."

Brother Sherlock beamed. "Good, Mistress Hooper, very good! I was right. Thank you, Mistress Hooper, do let me know if you find anything else. John?" Without waiting for an answer he swept out of the room.

John saw Molly flush and glow under Sherlock's rare praise and felt a surge of empathy for her.

"Uh, right, I should just -" he pointed after Sherlock.

"Yes, of course, good day," said Molly, looking bewildered and John fled.

Sherlock was already halfway back to the inn when John caught up with him.

"Are you always like that?" he asked.

Sherlock looked perplexed. "Like what?"

"Dismissive, abrupt. To Mistress Hooper," he clarified as Sherlock's expression didn't change. "You could have been a bit nicer to her, she was only trying to help. It must be hard on her, laying out someone she knows well." He wasn't sure why Sherlock's behaviour bothered him so much.

"I said thank you," said Sherlock. He sighed. "John, I don't - you must realise I'm not good with people."

"Funny that, for a man supposed to work among the poor."

"No. The poor are different: they require food, clothing, shelter, and if possible something to drink, not manners."

John was silent.

Brother Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. "Fine! _Deus da mihi fortitudinem!_ I'll endeavour to be _nicer_ to Mistress Hooper when next I see her. Happy?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Thank you."

Sherlock snorted a little, watching John sideways as they walked on, lips quirked into a small smile.

"So...we know Louise Mortimer was with child by Henry Knight," mused John, keeping his voice low. "And someone slit Mistress Mortimer's throat before the wolves got to her..."

"Which means murder," agreed Sherlock. "So we must ask ourselves, who would benefit from her death? I need more information. I will visit with her father and Master Knight later, after we find your sister."

"Right. Yes." Of course - he was going to find Harriet and part company with this mad friar. He mentally shook himself. Right, practical matters. "Come on, then, you're the brilliant one. I meant to ask the midwife about my sister, can't do that now; so where is she, then?"

"What's her name?"

"Harry - Harriet Colmer. Her husband is Benedict Colmer."

Sherlock nodded, spun on his heel, and accosted an older woman going about her business.

"Excuse me, Goodwife, but can you tell me the way to Benedict Colmer's house?" He shot a smirk at John, who shook his head with amusement.

The woman looked startled, then her face fell. "Oh dear, Brother, didn't you know? Master Colmer's been dead these two years past. His widow lives with Martin Colmer's widow now, in the woodcutter's cottage."

John felt his stomach sink. First his parents, dead five years since, their home and business sold, now Harriet's husband. It seemed that he'd lost nearly everything while he'd been away.

"How might one find the cottage?" Sherlock pressed. "My friend here is Master Colmer's brother-in-law."

The woman gave them directions, along with much tutting about the sad business before hurrying on her way.

"There you are," said Sherlock.

"Oh," said John nonplussed. So this was it. "Yes, of course, I should go, and you should...what?"

"I need to call on an old friend and then I mean to visit Master Knight and Mistress Mortimer's father. I intend this mystery to be solved, even if everyone else is determined to believe it was a magical beast."

"Right. Of course," said John, a little bereft at the thought of ending his part in this unexpected adventure.

There was a pause. John glanced up to find Sherlock studying him before saying hesitantly, "John, I wonder if perhaps, once you've spent time with your sister, you'd wish to assist me on this mystery?"

John looked away and schooled his features before glancing back. "I would," he said. "Yes."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile and John couldn't help breaking into a grin himself, which made Sherlock smile even more widely.

* * *

John ducked back to the Venetian's Rest to fetch his belongings and staff and thank Angelo for his hospitality. Hefting his bag once more and using his staff now only as an aid rather than a necessity he set off for the village gates.

A group of children were playing a chasing game on the village green, running and screaming from one of their number. With a start, John noted their pursuer was dressed as a wolf: clad in deer-skin with a snarling carnivale mask. The sight made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Another guard was on duty at the gate, sat on a stool in the guard house. John nodded to him as he passed through the now-open gates, then turned right to follow the path around to the eastern side of the palisade. There he found the worn foot track the village woman had described and set off across the common land. The ground was soft and muddy and puddles lay on the path from the rainstorm during the night. Now the sun was shining and the scent of drying earth and the buzzing of insects permeated the air.

Alone and in the sunlight it was hard to believe the events of the previous night had even occurred, they seemed so like yet another strange dream. The common land gave way to cultivation and the path continued between a strip of newly planted winter crops and a fallow field towards the woods. Once under the canopy of branches, dim and cool, John couldn't help looking carefully between the tree trunks, fallen limbs, and mossy undergrowth for a hint of fur and teeth, his ears pricked and body tensing at each small sound.

Stupid, he told himself. Supernatural or not, any wolf would be fast asleep, nursing a fat belly. The thought made him shudder, remembering what, exactly, was in that belly. He exhaled deeply and kept walking. After what seemed at least two miles of twists and turns among gnarled trees and silent underbrush, the path opened up into a moderately sized grassy clearing.

A little wooden cottage sat in the middle of the meadow, surrounded by a sturdy fence. The woodcutter's cottage itself was small but surprisingly well-built compared to the houses in the village, made of logs and stone instead of wattle and daub. Inside the fenced area was a kitchen garden and a cultivated strip newly sown with winter crops, as well as two outbuildings - a barn and a woodshed by the looks of them. A small brook burbled along on the far side of the cottage.

Chickens squawked and fluttered out of the way and two geese honked loudly as John entered the yard, while a cow and calf watched him placidly from outside the fence. A woman came from behind the cottage as a dog, a mastiff, started to bark. She shushed the dog and called it to her.

"Good day," the woman said, wiping her hands on her apron. She was obviously with child, rounded fully about the middle and walking with an awkward gait. She looked nothing like his sister, this must be the other Mistress Colmer, the widow of Martin Colmer.

"Goodwife," said John, "my name is John Watson. I wonder if Harriet Colmer lives here?"

The woman's expression turned to surprise. "Master Watson? You're Harriet's family?"

"I am her brother, yes," said John.

"Come in, come in, one moment, I'll fetch Harriet," said Mistress Colmer.

He was ushered inside the cottage while Mistress Colmer went off into the yard. The cottage had a large main room, the floor covered in rushes and lit only by the fire and two small windows covered in resin-soaked fabric. A proper wood fireplace with a chimney rather than a central hearth took pride of place on one wall, while two well-made chairs, a table, a stool and a shelf by the fire for cooking utensils spoke of either his father's or Benedict Colmer's craft as carpenters. There was a door to another room that John supposed must be the bedroom. The mastiff gave him a suspicious look and then settled back down at his place by the fire. John set his pack and staff to the side of the fireplace.

"John?"

He turned at the voice and saw a petite woman standing inside the door. She'd obviously been working, her blonde curls escaping her turban, the skirt of her dark woollen gown hitched up under her belt, legs only covered by a mud-splattered linen shift. She looked older and far more serious than when John had seen her last, but it had been thirteen years since John had left his parent's home in Camden, saying goodbye to his sister, happy and newly wed to their father's apprentice.

"Harriet?" John took a step towards her.

"It is you," said Harriet softly. "I hardly dared believe it." She stayed where she was, making no move to embrace him. She held herself stiffly, hands clenched about her arms.

John licked his lips, at a loss as to what to say. It had been too long, and there was nothing welcoming in Harriet's stance. "I'm sorry about Benedict, I only found out this morning," he offered.

Harriet nodded, her chin tilted up. "Thank you. You know Mother and Father passed away?"

"Yes...I went to Camden first. I looked for you in Lauriston but couldn't find any news of you. I thought I'd try here." Lauriston was a market town and people came and went; no one noticed a young carpenter and his wife. This, Benedict Colmer's home village, had been his last hope.

"Well. You found me."

"You look well."

"I am tolerable. And you? Are you well?"

"I was wounded in my shoulder." The limp didn't seem to bear mentioning. "It has healed passably."

The first woman, the other Mistress Colmer, appeared at the door then, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Clara, this is my brother, John," said Harriet. "John, this is my late husband's brother's wife and my dearest friend, Clara." She smiled at Clara, the first smile John had seen from her. It lit her face and she looked more like the Harriet he had known.

Clara smiled at Harriet and then at John. She had a kind, round face with soft brown eyes. John thought her quite pretty when she smiled.

"Pleased to meet you," said John.

"And you, John," replied Clara. "Will you have some refreshment? We have cider or murrey and there is bread and cheese."

John accepted and he pulled the stool to the table to sit with Harriet as Clara bustled about preparing food and drink.

"What happened to Benedict?" John asked.

"He was injured in the workshop and his wound became putrid," Harriet said shortly.

"I am sorry," said John, feeling ineffectual.

Harriet's eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment Clara set a mug of the fermented mulberry juice known as murrey and some bread and cheese in front of John, giving Harriet a meaningful look. John thanked Clara and ate gratefully.

Clara set mugs down for both herself and Harriet and took a seat beside them.

"You must forgive us, John," said Clara looking at Harriet. "We have had some unsettling news this morning that's upset us both."

John looked at her.

"My brother's fiancée, Mistress Mortimer-"

John swallowed his mouthful and looked between the two women. "God, no, I - I know, I saw her - Henry Knight is your brother?"

Clara nodded. "He sent word this morning. Poor Henry blames himself, of course. I always thought the curse was nonsense but first poor Martin and now Louise..."

"The curse?" This wasn't the first time he'd heard it mentioned.

"It is supposed to be the reason why the werewolf haunts the village. One of our ancestors - it's a sorry tale, it is said he defiled a girl to force her father to allow him to marry her, but she escaped on the night of the full moon and he chased after her. When he was found, a great wolf was devouring him, but the girl was nowhere to be seen."

"The girl was the wolf?" said John, guessing the rest of the story.

"According to legend. It is believed the family is cursed to misery. It is true that - well, there has been unhappiness in our past."

"I am sorry," John said again. "Your husband, Martin, he died recently?"

"He did," said Clara. "An accident."

Harriet took her hand.

"If there's anything I can do..." said John. "Perhaps some work around the cottage?"

Harriet gave a sudden harsh exclamation.

"Harriet?" John asked, frowning.

"Oh, thank God, finally we have a _man_ here to help us!" she said with heavy sarcasm, blue eyes narrowed. Clara gave her a look and Harry shook her head, still tense. "I'm sorry, Clara, I cannot keep my peace any longer," she declared. "John, you've been gone for thirteen years, I didn't know if you were alive or dead - you can't just come back and expect - no." She shook her head.

John let out a breath and looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm here now, if there's anything I can do-"

Harriet pushed her chair back and stood, pulling her hand from Clara's. She was shaking. "You're far too late, John. Where were you when Father needed help in his workshop? When Benedict wouldn't stop-" she pressed her hand to her lips.

"What happened with Benedict?" John demanded.

"It doesn't matter now! You were away, off having adventures, playing soldier. And now I suppose you want your share of your inheritance. Well, you can't have it, it's gone, I have nothing."

"Harriet," murmured Clara, clasping Harriet's hand.

"Harry, no, I just - no, I don't want money," said John helplessly. "I thought I could help."

"We don't need your help, John," said Harry tilting her chin. "We live well enough, we gather kindling to sell at market and I do what I can with woodcutting. Clara owns the cottage and there's nothing anyone, Mother Colmer included, can say to that."

"Harriet, John is family-" said Clara gently, glancing towards John's pack and staff. "We have a duty; we cannot turn him away."

John burned with humiliation. He would not beg for charity from his own widowed sister. "It's fine," he said stiffly. "I won't trespass on your hospitality."

Harriet had turned red, chastened by Clara's words. "You may stay if you need to," she said, equally stiffly. "You could sleep in the main room, or the barn. Clara and I share the bed and we haven't a spare but I'm sure we can make a comfortable place for you."

"No," said John getting to his feet. "It isn't necessary. I can find lodging in the village until I return south. I'll take my leave now. I'm glad to find you comfortable, Harriet, and I'm sorry you feel I've done you wrong. Good day."

He retrieved his pack and staff and walked out of the cottage without a backwards glance. The mastiff decided he was a good option for a walk and followed along beside him. John bit back his anger, fuelled by an uncomfortable sense of guilt and sorrow.

"John!" Clara hurried after him as quickly as she could. John waited until she reached him. "John - please, don't leave Baskerville yet. Harriet is hurt and angry, but give her time. You are the only family she has left. Just, wait a time, if you are able; give her a chance to reconcile with you. Please."

John exhaled harshly, still annoyed and hurt. "What happened with Benedict?" he said shortly.

Clara shut her eyes for a moment. "Martin and Benedict, God rest their souls, were good men but they had their vices. Martin's was the drink but Benedict loved the dice. That's what happened to Harriet's inheritance. When Benedict died, the workshop, the house, everything but Harriet's clothes and a few bits of furnishing had to be sold to cover his debts. Harriet was forced to live with our husbands' mother, as she'd no other family to go to. Mother Colmer is a good woman, but she is not a kind one."

"I see," said John, anger now directed towards his feckless brother-in-law.

Clara gripped his sleeve. "Please, John, Harriet has been a great comfort to me, both before and after Martin passed away. I don't want to see her hurt."

He sighed. "I'll visit once more, before I leave," he said, placing his hand on Clara's.

"Thank you, John," she said. "And good fortune to you." And with that she turned and hurried back to the cottage.

John took a breath and rubbed his eyes and started back into the woods, a weight on his heart.

By the time he reached the village he had determined his course of action. He could afford to pay for another night at Angelo's inn but he would need to find some labour this afternoon to earn enough coin for food. If he worked for a week, he should have enough to begin travelling south so he could be settled somewhere there before the snows came. He hadn't really had a plan apart from finding Harriet, but he had started to think about making a new life here. Now all that was for naught. His options were wider than before, now that his limp was cured, but he still had nowhere to go and nowhere to be. It should have been more freeing than it was.

The church bell chimed None, the midday bell, as John crossed the village green. He had arranged to meet with Sherlock midway between the bell for None and the bell for Vespers; however, when he returned to the Venetian's Rest, Rosa informed him that Brother Sherlock was in his room upstairs. John sent a message with her to tell him he was in the common room and then went to speak to Angelo about taking a room again. He was just sitting down to some lunch and a mug of ale, still free of charge despite his protestations, when the grey-clad form of Brother Sherlock slid into the seat opposite him.

"You're back early," the friar noted.

"Yes," said John shortly.

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Your sister was not pleased to see you."

John just looked at him.

"If it had gone well you'd have taken longer. Your hand is shaking, which means your thoughts are troubled and you have a face like a angry hedgehog. Ergo, it didn't go well." He sat back with smug satisfaction.

John maintained his level gaze for a moment longer. "Found out something though," he said, changing the subject. "The wife of Harriet's husband's brother, Clara Colmer, is Henry Knight's sister. She told me about this curse everyone's been talking about."

"John! That's good news!" John looked at the beaming man in surprise. "Oh, not the curse. Superstitious nonsense and a cautionary tale for young men who think they can take what they like; although Saint Francis would have approved of the notion of feeding the beast and making peace with it, as according to legend he himself dealt with the Wolf of Gubbio. No, don't you see, that means you're related to Henry Knight and have a perfectly good reason to call on him."

"I'm hardly related-"

"Clara Colmer is practically your sister-in-law, which makes Henry Knight your brother-in-law, and as he is the established _paterfamilias, _you must call on him."

John blinked. "I suppose. And how do I explain you?"

Sherlock waved that away. "Me? I'm spiritual comfort and prayers for the deceased. Friars are always welcome, or if not welcome, at least never rejected."

"Fine, we'll call on him, then. I need to find some work this afternoon, though. I can't stand on Angelo's hospitality forever."

"Do not concern yourself with that. I am taking lodgings with Mistress Hudson, above the bakery. There's more than enough room for two, and I don't sleep much anyway so you'll have the bed to yourself mostly."

"Oh. I...I don't-"

"You're worried about your nightmares," said Sherlock, brushing the topic aside. "As I said, I hardly sleep anyway and you should know me well enough by now to know I won't think you possessed by the Devil should you start rambling."

"It's not so much rambling, more screaming and thrashing," muttered John.

"Warning taken, then," said Sherlock. "I play my _viola di braccio_, often fall into fits of silence for hours on end and wake at odd hours. Potential companions should know the worst of each other, shouldn't they?"

Humiliation settled over him once more like a mantle. "I don't need your charity," he said tightly. "I will earn my keep. Once I've save enough for a few days' travel, I'll start the journey south. There's no reason to stay here."

"It's fine," said Sherlock. "It is hardly charity to share the expense of room and board."

John stared at him for a long moment, trying to read his expression and determine the meaning behind his offer. The Franciscan stared back. Finally John sighed and gave in. "All right," he said. "But only until I earn enough to start my journey again."

"Excellent. Eat up, and then I'll take you to meet Mistress Hudson."

The bakery was a large stone building with two storeys, the bakery taking up much of the space on the ground level.

"Widow Hudson considers herself to be in my debt," said Sherlock as they went up to a side door." A few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death. I was able to assist." Sherlock rapped sharply on the door.

"You saved her husband from execution?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." He smiled at John, who stared at him. "He was not a nice man, if it's any consolation, and certainly guilty. " Sherlock crossed himself. "May God rest his soul. Besides, by being convicted he was able to confess his sins and be shriven before death, which was surely better than dying without absolution? Ah, Mistress Hudson," he said as the door opened.

Mistress Hudson was an older woman, sparrow-like, small and neat, with sharp eyes and a delicate way about her.

She greeted Brother Sherlock like a son. "Look at you," she said with a pinch at his waist. "You're skin and bone, haven't you been feeding yourself? Where are you staying? At Angelo's, I suppose. You must come sup with me tonight, feed you up a bit. I'll need another prayer for Master Hudson, too. Where have you been, anyway? The last time you were here you said you'd only be gone a month, and look, it's nearly Martinmas."

In response, Brother Sherlock merely picked up Mistress Hudson and hugged her before spinning her around and setting her down. "I will come to supper," he said with the fondest, politest tone that John had yet heard from the man. "And perhaps, if your room is still vacant, I could stay for a few days - in exchange for prayers?"

"Oh, Sherlock, why are you even asking! Of course! And your friend?"

"Mistress Hudson, John Watson," Sherlock said. "John, the Widow Hudson. John will be staying too."

Mistress Hudson smiled at John brightly. "There's only the one bed but I'm sure you won't mind bunking in with dear Sherlock. It's a big bed and he never sleeps anyway, do you dear?" She turned and patted John's hand then. "You can help with some of the lifting down in the bakery. Poor Master Egerton isn't quite up to it some days; his hip, you know."

"The baker?" John asked. "Of course, thank you, Mistress Hudson."

"I'm still the owner, dear, I just don't bake the bread myself," she said. "Dear Master Egerton does that for me, I haven't the muscle for it. That was always Master Hudson's province. Now come on, I'll show you up."

The room held a bed consisting of a mattress laid on a short wooden bed frame, made up with hempen sheets and a woollen coverlet. A wooden chest sat in one corner and a chair in another. A chamber pot was under the bed and a basin was set on a wooden stand by the window. Sherlock laid his case and a small satchel on the chest.

"Oh, this is very nice," commented John.

"It's a flock mattress, dear," said Mistress Hudson. "I'll fetch another pillow."

"Thank you, Mistress Hudson, you are very kind."

"Oh not at all, dear, the more big strong boys I can have help me, the better. It all evens out, dear."

John put down his bag and set his staff against the wall. He noticed Sherlock watching him. "Thank you..." he began.

"Good, that's sorted then," Sherlock said, tugging open the door. "Come along, John, let's go and see what Henry Knight has to say for himself."

**Notes:**

1. ___O Iesu, fons inexhaustae pietatis, qui ex intimo dilectionis affectu in cruce dixisti: 'Sitio.', scilicet salutem generis humani, accende, quaeso, cordium nostrorum desideria ad omne opus perfectum, et sitim carnalis concupiscentiae, aestum mundanae delectationis in nobis penitus refrigera et exstingue. Amen_: The Seventh Prayer of Saint Bridget: O JESUS! Inexhaustible font of compassion, Who by a profound gesture of Love, said from the Cross: "I thirst!" and suffered from the thirst for the salvation of the human race, I beseech Thee, inflame in our hearts the desire to tend toward perfection in all our acts; and to extinguish in us the concupiscence of the flesh and the ardor of worldly desires. Amen.

2. _Deus da mihi fortitudinem: _God give me strength

3. Martinmas is the 11th of November, the feast of Saint Martin. It was the day when medieval folk traditionally killed the hogs they been fattening up over the year before winter.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Huge thanks to Tsylvestris, Mojoflower and Mid0nz for making this 1000000x better. Of course I fiddle right up to the end, all mistakes and odd choices are my own. Much love to Kikislasha for more gorgeous arts! Thanks also to everyone who left lovely feedback, favourites, kudos etc, it feeds my addiction and makes this worth the effort :)

Warnings for this chapter: none.

**Chapter 4**

_God allows the devil more power over the venereal act, by which the original sin is handed down, than over other human actions. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 2, Chapter II)_

The Knight family was one of the wealthiest in the village. Henry Knight, the head of the family since Old Master Knight had passed away three years before, owned the mill and a great portion of the farmed land in the village, and kept a half-dozen families in his employ. His aging manservant, Barrymore, showed John and Sherlock into the main room.

By any standards it was a fine house. John looked around the sizeable central hall and scuffed the toe of his boot against the paved floor. Tapestries hung on the walls and there was real glass in the two main windows of the hall. Knight sat alone by the fireplace, eyes red-rimmed and expression piteous.

"Brother," he managed, barely rising from his seat when Sherlock and John entered.

"Master Knight,'' Sherlock said. "Forgive the intrusion, I came to see if I could offer any solace in this difficult time." He turned and indicated John with a wave of his hand. "This is Master Watson, your kin through marriage."

Henry looked at him dully. "Kin?"

"Your sister Clara is the widow of my sister's late husband's brother," John explained, the relationship sounding tenuous to his ears. He straightened, smoothed his gown, and did his best to not look like a vagabond. "Harriet Colmer," he added for clarification.

"It is a terrible time you've found us in, Master Watson."

"John, please, Master Knight. And-"

"Henry." He buried his face in his hands. "I suppose you've heard - my beloved has been killed by the Devil's beast itself."

"Yes - I mean, I know - I was there last night, with Master Lestrade and Brother Sherlock - I'm so sorry, Henry. It must be - I can't imagine."

Henry raised his head but looked away, into the fire. "We'll bury her tomorrow; the funeral will be held during mass at Terce. Please come. I - forgive me. I'm not much use to anyone at the moment. Brother, some prayers for poor Louise and for my own misbegotten soul, if you would?" He waved a hand at Barrymore, by the door, and the servant tried to offer Sherlock some coins from a clinking purse but the Franciscan waved them away irritably.

"I will pray for both of you, Master Knight, but I do not believe your betrothed was killed by an unnatural beast, I believe instead that there is a more mortal cause," said Sherlock.

Henry looked up, startled. "A witch, you mean?"

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "Someone with cause to do Mistress Mortimer genuine harm. I wish to bring this person to justice. Do you know of anyone who would have borne her a grudge, wished her ill?"

"No, no one, Louise was too lovely, the most perfect angel." Henry dropped his face in his hands again. "It is my fault, I should not have asked her to marry me, I should have known I could never hope to have such happiness-"

"Why was the marriage delayed?" Sherlock asked.

"It was not my doing," said Henry, anger surfacing. "It was Master Mortimer, always finding a way to put it off. I offered to change the contract, forgo Louise's dowry - God knows I have enough to keep us both - but he was insulted and wouldn't speak to me then. Well, he would not have been able to delay us for much longer," he said defiantly. "Louise was with child. We would have married soon, whether he liked it or not." He pressed his fist to his lips. "She needs prayers, Brother; she wanted to wait until we were married properly but I - I convinced her. Her poor soul, and it's my fault, I pray she will forgive me -" He buried his face in his hands and began to weep.

"Next to useless," said Sherlock as they left the Knight household not long after. "Well, we may rule Henry Knight out as a possible culprit."

"The man is so obviously distraught, I can't imagine him having anything to do with it," agreed John.

"Only a consummate liar would be able to sustain such a fiction and Henry Knight is not one - when a man lies, he looks to the left; Henry Knight looked to the right when discussing Louise. His hands shook and he became distressed. I believe he _believes _he is guilty but only because of this so-called curse and from his part in her dying in a state of sin," said Sherlock. "He has been biting his nails and he has not changed his clothes since last night - the quality and style of his clothing indicates he values his appearance and a man of his means could change his gown daily, but he has stains from last night's supper upon it. If he had been merely imitating grief, he would have thought to change. No, I believe his grief to be genuine. Besides, the only possible motive he could have had was to escape the betrothal, especially as Louise was with child, and I can see no motive for that unless there's another woman - unlikely given his state of distress and the fact that he got Louise with child and freely acknowledged it. Besides, I imagine in a village like this we would know about it. No, I think we should talk to Master Mortimer."

"Astounding..." said John, once again finding himself amazed by the friar's rapid deductions. "But, you think it was her father?"

"He was delaying the wedding, couldn't come up with the dowry, and then his daughter falls pregnant, forcing his hand. He sounds a proud man - it is _possible_." Sherlock sounded doubtful.

"His own daughter?"

"Men have done many wicked acts out of pride and greed. Let's find out, shall we?" And he abruptly turned a corner and strode along a wider thoroughfare towards the smithy.

There was the sound of a hammer striking metal at the stone and wood building that housed the blacksmith's workshop and presumably his home.

"John, I'll need you to keep Mortimer busy," said Sherlock in a low voice, then led the way into the workshop, past farm implements, horseshoes, and tools, into the back where there was the glow and heat of a forge and the pounding clang of hammer against iron.

The blacksmith was a bear of man, as tall as Sherlock and twice as wide. He worked in only a leather jerkin, and his biceps and forearms, glistening with sweat and streaked with grime, bulged as he raised a massive hammer and sent sparks flying as he smashed it down on a piece of iron. He must have been only a handful of years older than John, for his dark hair was only beginning to grey and even with dark brows drawn down harshly and chin unshaven, his severe face showed the gravity of age but not the ravages of it. John could easily imagine him with the strength and anger to kill a wayward daughter.

The smith gave the metal one more pound with his hammer before turning to his visitors. On seeing his expression, John paused and re-assessed, for these were the eyes of a man wounded, mortally so. The pain, so raw and deep and obvious, made John's heart hurt.

"Brother," the smith said to Sherlock, then nodded at John. "I'm busy. What can I do for you?"

"Master Mortimer, I am Brother Sherlock and this is John Watson, Henry Knight's kin. We have come to offer our condolences. I will pray for poor Louise."

Mortimer nodded his head sharply. "She is laid out inside," he said. "Your prayers are welcome."

Sherlock inclined his head and slipped out of the workshop. The smith turned the iron on the coals and took up his hammer again.

"Master Mortimer, I am so very sorry for your loss, I-" John faltered.

"Henry Knight's kin, then?" said Mortimer between two blows of his hammer.

"Uh, yes, Benedict Colmer was my sister's husband."

"And you're staying here, in this village?" He thrust the iron into a bucket of water where it hissed and spat.

"For now."

The smith grunted, then turned and with a slick screech of metal against metal drew a rather sharp axe from a pile of implements. John held his ground but watched warily as Mortimer hefted the axe, then tested the blade against his forearm. It glided through the coarse hairs easily. Then he turned the tool and handed it, handle first, to John.

"Here you are, then."

The axe was heavy and well made. "Oh...I mean, I can't afford-"

"Take it, Master Watson. I intend to arm each and every able-bodied man in this village. Next month when the wolf comes, instead of a goat it will find a blade on its neck and my knife to slit its wicked belly." He held John's gaze. "Lestrade can say what he will."

John looked at the axe, at the razor-sharp blade, at Mortimer's eyes, so full of pain. "All right then," he said, lifting his chin. "I will be there."

"Good man," said Mortimer gruffly and turned back to his forge. John looked around the workshop, at the axes, the knives, the pikes and metal-studded clubs. Swords too, rough and ready - Mortimer was no swordsmith, but they would do for hacking and cutting and John would not laugh at one should it be held against his throat. He looked at the axe in his hands and felt the beat of the drum, the blood rising to meet it. And with a nod he walked out of the smithy and left Mortimer to build his armoury.

He waited outside the door to Mortimer's house and soon after Sherlock appeared.

"An axe, John?" he noted as soon as he saw him.

John hefted the implement. It did feel good in his hands. Under Sherlock's gaze, though, the red haze dimmed and he felt a little self-conscious. "I will probably give it to Harry. Mortimer is arming the village to hunt the wolf."

Sherlock snorted. "It will keep him busy, I suppose." They started walking, the ringing of metal against metal loud behind them. "He'll need to rein in his emotions; the temper of that metal will be ruined with all that smashing."

"I don't think it was him," said John. "Who killed Louise, I mean."

"No, of course not. The footprints we saw last night were too shallow. Someone of that bulk would sink further into the soil; his feet were far too large, as well. No, we can rule out Mortimer, but that was very useful, John. I was able to see inside Louise's bedchamber."

"Her bedchamber?" said John, a little shocked. "Why would you go in there?"

"Information, John, details. I now know Louise was eager to be wed, she's been sewing for her new home for years, and there were newer baby garments - she was looking forward to the child. I know she was a sensible, capable woman who kept house for her father; it was not the bedchamber of a frivolous girl with poppets and fripperies. And I know she was literate and knew her sums, for there was a Bible and ledger by her bed. Here." He handed John a slip of paper.

John unfolded it. He could make out a few letters.

"What's it say?" he asked.

"Oh," said Sherlock, obviously taken aback. "You can't read?"

His disappointment made John defensive. "I can write my name; I know my numbers. Haven't had any use for reading."

"Huh." Sherlock seemed to find this hard to fathom. "It says: _Tonight, HK_." He took the paper back and slipped into his robe. "H for Henry, K for Knight, I suspect. I need to see a sample of Knight's handwriting, see if they match."

"So maybe it was Henry after all?"

"I don't believe so, but we must rule him out conclusively. No, this must be the means by which she was lured out of the village."

"For a tryst?"

"Perhaps they were planning to elope. We will go to the funeral tomorrow and we will see what we will see." The bell for Vespers began to peal. "Come, I must pray and Mistress Hudson will be expecting us for supper."

Sherlock went up to their room to pray and John gave him the axe to take upstairs and instead went to the bakery to find Mistress Hudson and earn his keep by lending Master Egerton a hand. He was soon busy carrying sacks of flour, fetching water, and sweeping. Once he finished, he went up to their room. The friar was on his knees, facing the window, apparently deep in prayer, the rosary beads hanging loosely between his fingers.

John took his spare shirt, breeches, and hose as well as his soap and comb and went downstairs to make use of Mistress Hudson's bathing barrel. It felt good to wash properly for the first time in weeks and scrub away the travel grime. He washed his underclothes and hung them out to dry, cleaned his teeth with a twig of green hazel, and combed his damp hair. Thus washed and dressed in cleanish undergarments, his skin shiny from soap and scrubbing, John went back upstairs.

The friar dropped the prayer beads attached to the rope cincture belted about his waist, and stood in a fluid movement as John entered the room. He blinked and frowned when he took in John's appearance.

"When did you bathe?" he asked. "I was just speaking to you."

John furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "I've filled the barrel downstairs if you fancy a bath," he told him, dropping his soap and comb into his bag.

Sherlock nodded and fetched a few things from his satchel before disappearing downstairs.

It was rare to have a quiet moment to think, and John took a seat on the chair in the corner and said a prayer for poor Louise Mortimer, for Henry Knight, for Mortimer, for Harry, and just in general for all the people he'd seen suffering in his time. Then he thought on the murder and what they'd learned so far. It seemed obvious now that it couldn't have been Master Mortimer. Henry Knight's suspicion of a witch was more believable. Equally so, a man-wolf - or girl-wolf if the legend stood true - who lived in the woods and haunted the village in vengeance.

The sun was setting when Brother Sherlock returned, dark curls hanging in damp ringlets, face shiny and clean.

"Supper, John," he said, rousing John from his reverie.

John resolved to do far more work for the Widow Hudson on the morrow when he saw the good food she had provided them: mutton stew, fruit, bread and cheese, and ale. The room was warmed by the fire in the hearth and lit by rushlights. Mistress Hudson served the meal, fussing over them both in a way that reminded John of his mother, so long ago. It left him a touch maudlin, so when Mistress Hudson asked if it was true that he was Harriet Colmer's brother and how had he found her, he answered more shortly than he'd intended. He apologised but was grateful when Sherlock turned the conversation to Louise Mortimer.

Mistress Hudson repeated the same gossip they'd heard from both Molly and Henry Knight: Nicholas Mortimer, a proud and stubborn man, had delayed the marriage. She'd also heard by that evening that Louise had been with child.

"Nicholas Mortimer blames himself, as well he should," said Mistress Hudson. "If he'd only allowed her to marry Henry Knight this summer, she wouldn't have gone out to meet with him last night."

"Is Mortimer certain she went to meet Henry?" Sherlock asked.

"Why else would she have gone out?" Mistress Hudson asked. "Master Knight's housekeeper, Mistress Barrymore, called on Louise that day. Master Mortimer is certain it was to organise a tryst."

John glanced at Sherlock, remembering the note.

"I wonder who else Louise Mortimer spoke to that day," mused Sherlock. "And would you say Henry Knight was happy with Louise?"

"Oh, he was smitten. Poor boy's been heels over head for her since they were but children. She made him chase her, I'll tell you that though. Had a fair number of suitors in her time before she gave in."

"Given her 'condition' when she died, it appears she was quite happy to be caught," noted Sherlock.

"Sherlock dear," smiled the Widow Hudson. "Being caught is the whole point of that sort of chase."

Sherlock made a small sound of distaste. "Any other suitors in particular?"

Mistress Hudson looked thoughtful. "Arthur Stapleton had an eye for her, in particular, but she wouldn't have anything to do with him."

John glanced at Sherlock. "Thwarted love, there's a motive," he said.

"Perhaps," said Sherlock. "Love is a vicious motivator; bitterness, however, is a paralytic."

"Oh, Sherlock, you're not going to make this into one of your mysteries, are you?"

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. "Indeed I am, Mistress Hudson."

"Well, if you ask me, it's a bit queer that the beast lives outside the village. If it is a werewolf, who's to say it isn't one of us?" she asked as she started to clear their bowls away.

John glanced at Sherlock but the friar seemed to think the question not worth answering.

After supper, Mistress Hudson replenished their ale and bade them sit by the fire.

"Sherlock dear, would you play for us?" she asked and Sherlock readily agreed, fetching his _viola di braccio _from upstairs. He lifted it to his shoulder and with his bow began to coax from the three strings of the instrument a melody of a beauty that John had never heard before. He had caught a shadow of it the previous night, heard through the floorboards and amidst the noise of the tavern, but now, with just the crackle of the fire and sizzle from the rushlights, he was witness to the friar's true talents.

Sherlock moved with his instrument, bending into it, away with it, as the voice of the _viola di braccio_ rose and fell. He seemed taller, lithe and graceful, like a swaying reed - no more a friar, now a creature of music and song. His eyes grew distant and unfocused as he lost himself in the music. John watched shadows and moods chase across the friar's face until, after one particularly vibrant note, Sherlock's gaze fell upon John's and held there. The tune changed then, became brighter, more rousing, and suddenly John recognised it: a song he'd heard on the Iberian peninsula. It quickened his pulse and stirred his blood.

Sherlock played a few more notes, then the _viola di braccio_ quietened and fell silent. He lowered his bow.

"Oh, Sherlock, that was simply wonderful," said Mistress Hudson.

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on John's.

John cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "That was truly, quite, quite wonderful."

A small triumphant smile of pleasure creased the friar's lips.

Mistress Hudson rose from her chair. "Well, you boys might want to stay up, but I'm for bed. Goodnight. Thank you, Sherlock, that was beautiful."

John coughed and got to his feet as well. "Good night, Mistress Hudson, and thank you for supper."

"Not at all, dear. Now, if you need anything, I'm across the hall."

The bell for Compline tolled as they took a rushlight each and went upstairs.

"I must pray, but you go ahead and sleep," said Sherlock.

"All right," said John, looking at the bed. "Which side do you want then?"

"The top left," said Sherlock.

John raised an eyebrow but merely took the other pillow and dumped it at the opposite corner of the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have to have my head at this end, I'm too tall and my feet hang over the end. Despite your shoulder, I determined that you'd prefer to be closest to the edge, to avoid feeling trapped should your dreams assail you. Top left."

"Fair enough," John was forced to agree.

Sherlock knelt by the window to recite the psalms and prayers for the end of day. His voice was low with a rhythmic cadence, and as John knelt, crossed himself, and offered his own prayer, it seemed his words might actually have a chance of being heard.

John got to his feet and shed his cloak and boots and stripped off his belt and overgown, down to his linen shirt and breeches. He wasn't about to dirty Mistress Hudson's clean sheets with his travel-soiled outerwear. He tucked his dagger into his pack and then arranged his pillow at the foot of the bed before sliding under the covers.

The woollen mattress was the height of comfort even compared to the bed in Angelo's inn, the pillow and sheets soft and the blanket thick and warm. John sighed with contentment, finding himself unusually unconcerned by the thought of sleeping alongside another. He'd bunked with others before on his journey back home, but they'd always been strangers and it always led to uncomfortable nights spent barely dozing for fear of lashing out in his sleep or being accused of possession or worse. He realised with a start that he trusted Sherlock, not only to refrain from slitting his throat and stealing his coin, but also to not be bothered by his nightmares. It was a comforting thought.

He lay awake for a while, listening to holy words spoken in a holy tongue and the soft _click, click_ of the friar's rosary beads.

Sometime later he was roused by the sound of Sherlock preparing for bed, untying the cincture about his waist and taking off his shoes. Extinguishing all but one nearly-spent rushlight, the friar climbed onto the bed and positioned himself in the far corner, head against the wall. He lay on his back on top of the blanket, hands folded neatly on his chest, feet just over the end of the bed. John rolled onto his side and settled back down.

"'Night, Sherlock," he said.

There was a loud yawn. "Goodnight, John."

John laughed softly and closed his eyes.

John's dreams turned to nightmare in the same way as usual, this time featuring a wolf and Harry along with the battlefield, but at the point where the fear was building, where he was starting to gasp for breath, something changed and he heard a sound, a low, deep voice speaking rhythmic words he could barely understand, and a warm weight anchoring him. Slowly the fear faded and he drifted into blessedly dreamless sleep.

When he awoke it was light and he was lying on his side, backside pressed firmly against the warmth of another body, with bony knees dug into his back and a hand fastened on his calf. He craned his neck around. Sherlock was still fast asleep on his side, curled up against him, left hand clasping John's leg - comfortingly so. His usually animated face looked innocent at rest, more monastic without the addition of sharp, penetrating eyes or a sardonic twist to his decadent lips that were now gently parted in sleep. Soft curls fell across his temple and John was struck once more by the contrast between the friar's natural features and his role in life.

He quickly looked away and shifted, trying to slide from the bed without waking the other man. Sherlock grunted and tucked his hand in under his body, curling in on himself, but he didn't wake as John slid his leg free. He sat up, stretching, shoulder and back stiff, unused to the softer bedding.

John pulled on his overgown, belt, and boots and slipped outside to see to the call of nature. Thus relieved, he found Mistress Hudson in her kitchen just as the bell for Prime was tolling. She fussed over him, fixing him food and drink to break his fast. Not long after, Sherlock appeared, rubbing his eyes, the curls about his tonsure still tousled. He pecked Mistress Hudson on the cheek and took a seat at the table while she bustled around fetching his breakfast.

"'Morning," John said, looking up from his meal. "Hope I didn't disturb you too much last night."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and snagged a piece of bread from his plate.

"Oi, get your own," said John grinning.

"Sherlock, you leave John's food alone. I won't be a moment. Honestly..."

Sherlock ate the bread regardless. "I knew it would be of no concern. You started to become distressed so I recited a prayer of Saint Augustine's until you calmed."

John ducked his head and concentrated on his breakfast, recalling the Latin words, the deep voice, a warm weight grounding him. "Right. That...makes sense. Well, it worked, thanks." He glanced up and caught a small smile flickering across Sherlock's face.

"It is of no import. I'm happy to help."

John looked back at his bowl. "So we go to the funeral today?"

"It is the Sabbath. And where better to view the complicated relationships of a village than at church?"

"Right, then I'd best shave, I suppose," John said, rubbing his chin, at least five days' growth of bristle rasping his fingers.

Sherlock rubbed his tonsure. "Hm, how are you with a razor?"

"I'm quick and I haven't lost my own nose yet," he said.

"What about anyone else's nose?" said Sherlock with a quirk of his lips.

"All unscathed."

"In that case...if you'd be so good?"

"I'll do yours if you'll do mine," John said with a grin.

Mistress Hudson took hot water up to their room and John fetched his shaving kit, laying out his flat razor and soap. He pulled the chair over to the washstand by the window.

"Here," he said. "Sit down, then."

Sherlock obediently took a seat and John dampened a flannel in the hot water and laid it over the friar's crown while he stropped the straight razor. He handed Sherlock the flannel to lay across his jaw as he lathered up the soap and applied it liberally to the stubbled patch on Sherlock's scalp, massaging it in with his fingers, amused when Sherlock groaned and leaned into his touch.

John dipped the razor in the hot water and held Sherlock's head still as he carefully scraped the blade across the friar's tonsure. Sherlock's curls were soft under his fingertips and he soon became absorbed in the peace of concentrating on a delicate task. He made short work of the fluff trying to grow on Sherlock's pate, and cleaned off the now-smooth skin with the cloth before tilting Sherlock's head back to rest against his belly. Tossing the flannel into the wash basin and putting the razor to one side, he lathered Sherlock's cheeks and the underside of his jaw. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as John massaged the soap into his skin with his fingertips, the Adam's apple bobbing in the smooth column of his throat.

Tonsure aside, John had performed this task for comrades at arms before, and had it performed countless times in return, a necessity before battle if you were to have any hope of being ransomed if captured: clean shirt and a shave was the motto. He lifted the blade again and, holding Sherlock steady against him and his skin taut, he began to shave first the friar's cheeks, gliding the blade down the other man's face at the exact angle to shave, not cut, and then long strokes under his jaw and down along the pale, long throat. Tilting Sherlock's face, his forefinger resting along Sherlock's chin as he cupped his jaw, he spanned the distance between chin and lip with his thumb, pressing the friar's bottom lip upwards. Sherlock's nostrils flared and uncanny blue-green eyes fluttered open for a moment before closing again.

"All right?" John asked, raising his hand. His voice was jarringly loud.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, then swallowed. "Hurry up, I'd like to make the mass, not just the burial."

John chuckled, perhaps more than was warranted. He let out a breath and then replaced his hand, pulling skin taut to shave the spot under Sherlock's lip, followed by four more strokes until the chin was clear of stubble. His thumb grazed over Sherlock's mouth to pull down the top lip while he made a few careful strokes under the friar's prominent nose.

He dipped the razor in the washbasin and then lifted Sherlock's head back up before moving around to check his handiwork and wipe away any soap with the cloth. Sherlock blinked open his eyes and once again John found himself looking directly into unearthly blue-green. His hand faltered in the act of drawing the cloth down over Sherlock's mouth and his gaze dropped to follow the action just as the very tip of Sherlock's tongue flickered out to dab at his full bottom lip. He quickly turned back to the basin.

"There," he said lightly over his shoulder as he rinsed the flannel. "Finished and everything's still attached."

He heard Sherlock stand behind him.

"Your turn."

John hesitated then pulled himself together. He wrung out the cloth and applied it to his own face as he sat on the chair. Sherlock stropped the blade again.

"You have done this before, haven't you?" John asked, keeping the tone light as Sherlock took away the cloth and began lathering his cheeks. "On someone else, I mean?"

"You managed it, how hard could it be?" Sherlock replied with a smirk, then must have seen John's panicked look. "I'm only jesting; of course I have." He stood behind John, as John had done, and tilted John's head back against him into the rough wool of his robe. John chuckled weakly and then decided closing his eyes might be for the best.

The friar began massaging the lather into his cheeks, long, supple fingers drawing circles on his face. Those same fingers rubbed under his jaw, down his throat, and then stroked along his upper lip and chin. John breathed, registering the scent of soap, Sherlock's woollen robe, overlaid with the scent of wood smoke, rushlights, and a hint of the dried lavender hanging by their window.

"Keep still," murmured Sherlock, pinching his chin between two fingers and holding him firmly. John felt suddenly vulnerable, his throat bared, offered to a man with a sharp blade - a relative stranger, not a comrade in arms. His pulse quickened as the blade landed featherlight against his throat and glided downwards. He swallowed.

"Still moving, John," murmured the deep voice from just above his ear, and John's mouth went dry. He kept still, pulse racing, as the friar followed with a stroke over his Adam's apple. There was the clink and splash as Sherlock cleaned the blade, and then the blade touched lightly against his throat again. He became caught up in the firm touch of Sherlock's hand holding him in place, in the caress of steel against his skin, the rasp of the blade gliding through whiskers, and then the gentle splash of the water. Fingertips pressed firmly against his lips, against his cheekbones, jaw, skull anchored by the press of Sherlock's body.

And then the blade was gone and the solid presence of Sherlock vanished. There was the splish of the flannel being squeezed in the bowl, damp roughness against his sensitive flesh, and the huff of Sherlock's breath, warm and not unpleasant as his face was wiped clean.

John opened his eyes and found himself looking into darkened green ones. His breath hitched and his cock quickened.

Sherlock straightened abruptly.

"There, completely intact. Come along, John, the funeral procession will pass soon and it's better to be early to see everyone arrive."

John ran his fingers over his now-smooth jaw and blinked. He had not felt this sort of stirring since he'd been wounded, had consigned the sensation as lost along with the full use of his leg and shoulder; to have it awakened again was a heady feeling.

He stared, bemused, after Sherlock as he pulled open the door and disappeared down the stairs.

First his leg and now his prick?


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Thank you as always to my awesome betas: Tsylvestris, Mojoflower, Mid0Nz and Aranel_parmadil. You guys are amazing. And thanks to Kikislasha for the amazing art work, totally chuffed. Feedback, kudos, reviews, favourites are all loved and adored.

Warnings for this chapter: internalised homophobia, homophobia, medieval attitudes towards women

Chapter 5 _In the presence of a murderer blood flows from the wounds in the corpse of the person he has slain. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 1 Question II)_

John cleaned his razor and put his shaving kit away, taking a moment to master himself before following Sherlock downstairs. He told himself the unnatural stirring he'd felt was nothing more than a passing fancy, yet when he stepped out of Mistress Hudson's house and saw the tall Franciscan standing by the side of the road he felt a frisson of excitement. He took a breath. Maybe he _was_ bedevilled. Not a twitch from the wretched piece of flesh for well nigh a year and suddenly it was stirring not only for a man but a_ friar _to boot.

Thrusting aside the disconcerting urge, he stood by Mistress Hudson as they waited for the funeral procession. It came soon enough, slowly and surely, a solemn line of villagers behind a young man bearing a cross. Father Anderson followed the altar boy, reciting the psalm Miserere and bearing a lighted candle. Immediately after came a litter bearing the mortal remains of Louise Mortimer, borne aloft by Nicholas Mortimer, Henry Knight, and two men John recognised from the night of the murder, Robert and William. John, Sherlock, and Mistress Hudson joined in the somber procession, Sherlock making the sign of the cross and praying in a low voice as they walked along behind.

The procession wound through the village, more mourners falling in as it progressed, and ended at the village church. Mistress Hudson told John its name: Saint Bartholemew's, though he could tell as much himself by the carving of three knives upon the entrance and the statue of the man holding his own skin at the front of the church opposite the Virgin. It was not big, as churches went, not even having a cruciform shape but merely simple niches in the walls for the statues of the Virgin, Christ, and the patron saint. As they entered the church and the body was laid in front of the altar, the priest intoned the antiphon _Exsultabunt Domino_. The mourners, crossing themselves before the altar, gathered in the open space of the nave. Sherlock touched John's elbow lightly and they moved to the back of the church, watching the other mourners enter.

It was noisy in the church; parishioners greeted each other and exchanged news, a number of them wiping their eyes - understandably, given the sad occasion, children fidgeted, and the villagers milled about as they filed in. Groups of men gathered and John caught mutterings about the wolf and how 'something ought to be done, werewolf or no'. He recognised a number of faces: Master Egerton and Molly Hooper, among others. There were a number of curious glances in his direction as well.

He spied Harriet standing to one side with Clara Colmer and an older lady; she seemed to be very carefully not looking in his direction. John sighed. He supposed he'd have to be the one to make amends, just like when they were children.

"What now?" John asked.

"Now we observe," said Sherlock. "There is much one may learn if one will only observe."

"Oh?"

"I could tell you something about every person in this church, John, from mere observation alone."

"Really?"

"You don't believe me?"

"I do, actually, but I'd like to see it. Go on, show off then." He indicated his sister and her companions. "Those women over there."

"Testing me, John? That's your sister; obvious. Her sister-in-law, and mother-in-law. Apart from the family resemblance, the fact that she keeps casting furtive glances in your direction indicates her interest in you. You have a remarkable smile but I doubt even you could have broken the heart of a fair maid swiftly enough to warrant those glares. No, there is some other connection: sister. It is obviously a family group from their proximity to each other, extreme familiarity and lack of chatter, and the deference to the older woman."

John's attention had stuck on Sherlock's description of his features but he caught up to the conversation and shook his head. "That's...very clever..."

Sherlock shot him a small smile before returning to his observation of the crowd. "There's the Arthur from the other night," he said. "I wonder if he's the same Arthur who failed to win Louise Mortimer's hand." John looked where he was indicating. The man named Arthur who'd arrived at the murder scene with Robert and William had entered the church with a young lady of about Louise's age. He was a reedy-looking lad, roughly of an age with Henry Knight, with a large nose and a distinct lack of chin. There was no accounting for womanly taste, of course, but even John could tell that Henry Knight, large ears and all, was the better-looking of the two. Arthur was obviously out of sorts with the girl at his side, glaring at her and looking about him with an air of acute embarrassment. She was sobbing loudly and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Is that his wife or sister?" John wondered.

"Sister, obviously," began Sherlock, then trailed off as the woman suddenly pulled her elbow sharply out of Arthur's grip. He went to reprimand her, but noted the crowd and drew himself up as she hurried to the front of the church to kneel before Louise's body, weeping copiously. "Interesting," murmured Sherlock.

"What is it?" John asked, but the friar had already walked away, making his way through the crowd, leaving John to belatedly weave along behind. He accosted Mistress Hudson, who was deep in conversation with another old lady.

"Margaret Turner, dear," the old lady said, turning eyes as bright and bird-like as the Widow Hudson's upon them both. "You must be Agnes' lodgers."

"Yes, this is dear Sherlock and John," said Mistress Hudson, preening a little at having such interesting boarders. "Master Watson is Harriet Colmer's brother."

"I heard, Agnes, I heard," nodded Mistress Turner, studying John speculatively.

"Mistress Hudson, Mistress Turner," said Sherlock, obviously growing impatient with the nattering, "I need to tap your unequalled knowledge of this village. The couple who just made something of a scene - Stapleton?"

"Yes, Arthur Stapleton, and his sister, Beryl," said Mistress Turner. "She and Louise were quite close. Poor dove."

"I see. And the pallbearers, aside from Mortimer and Knight, what are their surnames?"

"Oh well, that's Robert Frankland," Mistress Hudson said, indicating the older man. "He's Henry Knight's cousin, owns that big house by the mill and half the land on the south-side of the village. William Murray there, he's the miller. Henry owns the mill, of course, but William runs it; he's very particular." The look on Mistress Hudson's face indicated that she didn't care much for Master Murray.

"Brother Sherlock!" boomed a jolly voice from behind them. John turned to see Angelo and Rosa. "And Master Watson. Mistress Hudson, you are a saint, but how am I to repay this man if you insist on giving him everything?"

"Oh Angelo, you've had your turn. Besides, Master Hudson needs prayers. Rosa, dear, how are you?"

"As well as can be expected," began Rosa.

"John," said Sherlock, gripping his elbow and steering him away. "There's Lestrade, the magistrate." John saw the silver-haired man from the night of the murder, dressed in fine clothes, the weight of office evident in his bearing and sombre features. "The woman beside him is his half-sister, Mistress Donovan."

The woman with Lestrade was dressed in equal finery - not frippery but good quality clothing, more like that of the burgher women in the south than what the other village women wore. To John's eye, she was quite attractive: dark hair styled in the same manner as Rosa - twisted up in braids and covered with a sheer veil rather than a cap - fashionably high forehead, and a duskiness to her complexion that spoke of Moorish ancestry. John wondered at her connection to Lestrade.

"Same mother. They're both from the south; she's Genoese," said Sherlock, as if answering his thoughts. "Arrived the spring before last. She's here under sufferance; it was Lestrade or the convent."

John watched the pair make their way to the front of the church, Lestrade exchanging greetings as he went. They paid their respects to Nicholas Mortimer, who stood stony-faced at the front of the church along with a red-eyed Henry Knight and the two pallbearers. Knight's servant Barrymore stood stiffly beside his master along with a woman who must have been Mistress Barrymore.

"Let's have a chat with our good magistrate, shall we?" murmured Sherlock.

Lestrade had taken a position near the front of the church, surveying the parishioners. His sister drew herself up disdainfully as they approached.

"Master Lestrade," said Sherlock. "_Mistress_ Donovan."

"Well, look who's back," she said snidely.

"Sally," said Lestrade reprovingly, then inclined his head. "Brother Sherlock." He looked at John. "We met the other night - Watson, wasn't it?"

"Yes, John Watson."

"New here, aren't you?"

"Uh yes, I've - been away, Granada - wounded. I'm from Camden, originally."

"Good God, man, why come to this accursed place?" He looked around the church, the scene of mourning, with world-weariness rather than distaste.

"Family. My sister is Harriet Colmer."

"Benedict Colmer's widow. Well then, you'll be making yourself useful soon enough, won't you? Find some gainful employment -"

"Enough questions, Lestrade," interrupted Sherlock. "John's helping me for the time being and earning his keep at the bakery." He waved the topic aside. "Tell me you're not letting this murder rest as an act of the Devil?"

Lestrade looked troubled. "I don't know what to think, Brother," he said. "There are witches at work in the world, there's plenty of legal precedent for that. There's also a beast out there, I'll tell you that much. I sat watch on the wall one night when the tribute was paid and the thing I saw - if it was a mere wolf it was the biggest I've seen in my life. Made my skin crawl, and the way it acted, it was knowing - a cunning thing. I checked the gate personally that night, let me tell you." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Mortimer wants to lead a hunting party next full moon. I've a mind to let him, nay, join him. You think otherwise?"

"I do. Her body was moved - not dragged, no grass stains on her skirt or dirt on her heels - she was carried. There's evidence of a knife wound on her throat, which was concealed by the work of the wolf, a mortal beast if I am correct, grown big and fat on a regular diet of well-fed goat meat. I believe her throat was slit and she was left out for a wolf to destroy the evidence."

"By whom?"

"That, Master Lestrade, is the question; a puzzle I am happy to pursue."

"Of course he is," Sally Donovan muttered derisively, rolling her eyes. John looked at her sharply. "He must love this, the nosy braggart."

"Sorry?" John looked at her in surprise.

"You know so much about it, Brother," she continued, ignoring John. "How do we know it wasn't you who killed the Mortimer girl? You arrived the very day she died."

"Sarah, for shame!" snapped Master Lestrade, dropping the diminutive Sally in favour of Mistress Donovan's proper name. "This is a man of God you're speaking of."

She narrowed her eyes. "How do we know he even is a Franciscan? A vagabond arrives from who knows where, wearing a cowl and a grey robe, spouting Latin, and we just assume he's a Little Brother. For all we know, he's a heretic hiding from just punishment in this benighted place."

Sherlock glowered at her. It was too much for John to hear the Franciscan slandered thus and stay silent. "Here now. What have you got against Brother Sherlock?"

Sherlock, however, inhaled and then raised a pacifying hand. "Now, John, we must excuse Mistress Donovan," he said with a nasty smirk. "She slept ill last night and must be tired. It is so hard to settle in a strange bed, after all." He raised his eyebrows at Sally meaningfully and she flushed crimson.

Lestrade looked at her sharply, and she rounded on Sherlock furiously. "What are you -"

Father Anderson chose that moment to join their company. "Master Lestrade, so good to see you. Mistress Donovan, likewise. Oh, Brother Sherlock, you're still here, and your little friend - Watts, Walsh -?"

"Watson," said John. "Father."

"Master Lestrade," continued Anderson as if John hadn't spoken, "I wanted to let you know I've taken the liberty of writing to Lord Wilkes to tell him about our unfortunate situation. I know we are in the furthermost reaches of his realm but I hope he will see it in his heart to assist us, perhaps send some men or an expert in the supernatural to deal with this hellish creature."

Master Lestrade did not seem overjoyed at this news. "Did you now, Father," he said. "I will note that I have queried Lord Wilkes about the circumstances of the wolf in the past and he seemed content to allow the peasants to continue their monthly sacrifice."

"But surely now that the wolf has taken-"

"I hope you won't come to regret involving his lordship in this case, Father," murmured Sherlock.

"Oh, I suppose you think there's no need, that someone in this village is capable of committing such an atrocity. Well, I'll have you know that I know each and every one of these parishioners and not one of them would do such a thing to a sweet girl like Louise Mortimer." He eyed Sherlock narrowly. "In fact, mayhap you should be looking at newcomers to this village. Your little friend here, for example. I understand Master Watson has recently been to war. Who knows what brutalities he has committed?"

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock talked over him. "Master Watson was asleep in the attic room of Angelo's inn on the night of the murder. There was no way he could have exited the attic, committed the crime, climbed back into the attic, and joined the rest of us in the inn's common room upon the sound of screaming. Impossible."

"Of course it's impossible, because Louise was murdered by the Beast!" exclaimed Father Anderson, his voice echoing in the church.

In the long silence that followed, John saw Master Mortimer stiffen and glare in their direction.

Anderson flushed. "I advise you to keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you, Brother," he hissed.

"Yes, because we wouldn't want any dirty little secrets coming to light, now would we, Father?" He glanced meaningfully at Sally.

The Father turned as white as he had red. "You don't know that-"

"Sally?" Lestrade frowned. Sally tossed her head.

"Oh, please. He's been listening to scurrilous gossip."

"Not at all, Mistress Donovan. Amazing, the particular scents different people have. They can provide all sorts of information about where a person has recently been, and with whom. Your perfume, Mistress Donovan, is rather distinctive. As are the beeswax candles Father Anderson burns liberally."

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-" spluttered Father Anderson.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Mistress Donovan had to speak to you on an urgent spiritual matter last night, and just happened to stay over." He turned to Sally Donovan. "And I assume she did a lot of praying, going by the state of her knees. John?" he said and walked away, leaving Sally covering her gasp, Lestrade glaring indignantly, and Anderson gaping his mouth like a landed fish.

John turned to follow but felt a tug on his sleeve. "John?" It was Clara, with Harriet and the older woman standing behind her.

"Oh, hello, Mistress Colmer, Harriet-"

"Clara, please, I am practically your sister. Mother, this is Harriet's brother, John Watson. This is my husband's mother, Mistress Colmer." Mother Colmer had a thin, plain face, a snub nose and a mouth like a cat's bum, as John's mother would've said. John had probably met her years ago at Harriet's wedding but he didn't recall her. She raised her eyebrows as she looked at John.

"Madam," said John, inclining his head respectfully. "Harriet." His sister looked at him, tight- lipped.

"John," she said stiffly.

Mother Colmer's gaze narrowed and she studied him carefully. "I heard you've returned. Harriet's your only family, isn't she? You'll be taking work with Henry Knight, then? If not, you should. He'll be able to find you gainful employment." She looked at her daughter-in-law, then back at John. "If you set yourself up nicely, in a year's time Clara here will have borne her bairn and will be looking for a new husband. These things are sometimes best kept within the family. After all, Naomi found Ruth a husband among her own people. Perhaps Harriet could do the same. They are like Ruth and Naomi, these two, '_wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge'_. One of them will need a husband soon." She raised her eyebrows, mouth drawn into a severe line.

Clara blushed and looked distressed. "Mother, I hardly think -"

"I'm sure Clara is not interested in finding a new husband," said John quickly, mortified for the poor woman. Harriet looked apoplectic.

"I'm sure she's not," she replied. "John, good day."

John nodded. "Mistress Colmer, Mother Colmer -"

"Now you're back, you'll need to take your sister in hand, Master Watson," said Mother Colmer with a sharp look at her daughter-in-law.

John fled.

He found Sherlock in position at the back of the church and joined him to watch the funeral mass. Father Anderson had taken his position by the host and cleared his throat noisily. He had donned his chasuble and ornately embroidered stole and was clearly relishing his important role in the occasion. He intoned the mass solemnly, and John, not understanding a lick of it but having heard the Latin often enough to know the words, knew he was making a feast of it. He and Sherlock glanced at each other and John had to bite back an inappropriate giggle. Sherlock's lips twitched but he put his foot heavily on John's and looked innocently ahead. John ducked his head, shoulders shaking silently.

After the Requiem mass came the prayer service for Louise Mortimer's immortal soul. All inappropriate levity fled in the face of Henry Knight and Nicholas Mortimer's grief. Women throughout the congregation were weeping, but Knight and Mortimer stood still and silent, their faces portraits of agony. John began to understand the conflict Louise had experienced, torn between a loving father and an adoring husband-to-be.

Sherlock leaned down. "John, stay here and note anything unusual," he murmured close to his ear.

"What?" asked John, turning sharply, but Sherlock was already slipping out the church door.

John repressed the urge to follow and shifted self-consciously, returning his focus to the funeral. He noted that both Louise's father and fiancé made sizable donations during the offertory to benefit Louise's soul. After the ceremony the body was lifted once more and carried into the churchyard where Louise was to be buried.

John trailed out with the rest of the congregation; many, particularly Beryl Stapleton, were openly weeping. He positioned himself at the back of the crowd. There was no sign of Sherlock and he wondered what he was doing. Soon Father Anderson had taken his place by the body and the graveside ceremony commenced. Beryl Stapleton broke free of her brother's restraining hand again and fell, wailing, beside the grave. Molly Hooper and another woman lifted her away, comforting her.

"What happened to Himself?" a feminine voice asked. John turned to find Sally Donovan standing beside him.

He decided to prevaricate. "Call of nature."

"You'd do well to forget about him; start making a life for yourself here. He won't stay. He drifts in perhaps twice a year and then disappears again for months on end. We're not important to him. It would serve you well to remember that."

"You really don't like him, do you?" It was more an accusation than question. The truth of what she was saying hit home all the same. What was he going to do once Brother Sherlock inevitably continued on his way? He was a mendicant friar, and by his very nature he must move on. The thought of ending his connection with the brilliant, fascinating man left a bitter taste in John's mouth.

"He doesn't care about his flock. All he cares about is being clever and being right. He's nosy and thinks he's better than the rest of us, but he doesn't give a fig about the people in his community. He doesn't want to be here. I understand, I do. I never asked to leave Genoa, but I'm here now and I'm making the best of it. My brother didn't wish to be sent out into the middle of nowhere, but he's a good and just magistrate for this village. Even Father Anderson doesn't particularly want to be here, but at least he's trying. What does Brother Sherlock do except to sweep in, sneer at everyone he meets, and then flit on to somewhere more interesting? So much for helping the poor."

"You sound jealous."

"Huh. Maybe I am, but then again, maybe I have a point and you don't wish to admit it."

They were both silent for a long moment.

"Why are you even talking to me?" he asked.

"You didn't stare when you saw my skin. You've been away, you've seen the world. You should have seen the faces on the narrow-minded old biddies when I arrived. The gossiping and gawking - just because my grandmother was a Moor, because I don't hide my hair under a layer of cloth." She looked at him consideringly. "You're stuck here now too. Maybe, just maybe you can make the most of it and find some way to contribute."

John stared at her.

"I have a small school, for some of the brighter children. The little ones come most of the year but the older lads and lasses only during the winter months, when they're not needed in the fields. Maybe one of them will be able to join a monastery, have a choice to leave this village without having to fight a war. Your Brother Sherlock didn't mention that I am a teacher, that I am my brother's secretary, that I was tutored by the great Father Tobias Gregson, did he? No, he was too busy damaging my character with his oh-so-clever observations."

"No, he didn't," allowed John, feeling a tad humbled.

"Good day, Master Watson. Think on it." And Mistress Donovan walked back to join her brother.

John stared after her, thoughtful, before returning his attention to the burial. He watched the dead girl's father, her lover, her friends send her on her way. Beryl Stapleton's wails could be heard above everything else and Father Anderson had to speak loudly to be heard. He turned at a light touch on his upper arm, and a shot of pleasure warmed him at the sight of the tall, familiar figure back at his side.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "The Stapleton girl's still making a scene, as you can hear. Arthur Stapleton himself is staying well back. Nicholas Mortimer and Henry Knight aren't speaking - looks like the pallbearers are there more to keep them separated than anything." John glanced up and caught a gratifying look of approval on Sherlock's face. "You?"

"Knight didn't write the note I found in Louise's bedchamber."

"That's what you were doing? Breaking into Henry Knight's house?"

"Perfect opportunity John. Everyone is here, the house was empty. I found several examples of his handwriting - none of them matched the hand in the note."

"You're mad, you know that, right?"

"Problem?"

"No...but, just so you know."

Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh. They watched Father Anderson sprinkle holy water on the grave.

"I have to leave tomorrow," said Sherlock suddenly.

John felt a lurch of dismay at the news. Sally Donovan was right. "Already?"

"My brother's tedious errand," he said by way of explanation. "I'm expected at Belgravia Abbey by the day after next. It is a journey of a day and a half, at least."

"Oh."

There was a long pause as Sherlock watched as Father Anderson launched into a lengthy and somewhat strident prayer of commendation. John looked down at his shoes, aware that he cared too much whether the friar left or not.

"It is a _long_ journey," Sherlock said suddenly. "On foot. Through the woods and into the mountains. I have been led to understand there are bandits en route and possibly demonic forces at work." John glanced up and saw Sherlock observing him.

John raised his eyebrows. "An unarmed man, travelling alone - not the sanest idea."

"No," replied Sherlock airily. "Really, I should take some protection. Perhaps a former soldier. Someone who knows his way around a staff, or a dagger. Who owns a large axe, mayhap?"

"Hm. I might know just such a man." John kept his expression neutral.

"Might be dangerous," added Sherlock.

"I do have a very big axe," noted John.

"Shame not to put it to use, really," agreed Sherlock.

"What time do we leave?"

"First light, tomorrow. I'll ask Mistress Hudson to pack us some food. She'll keep the room for when we return."

John looked down again and allowed himself a grin. "So you'll come back, then?" he asked.

"I haven't solved the mystery yet, John."

He nodded. "Good."

A stiff breeze blew through the churchyard, bringing with it fallen leaves and autumn chill. The sun hid behind leaden clouds. Sherlock crossed himself as Anderson made the final petition, the mourners piously silent, save for a few quiet sobs, even Beryl Stapleton finally quiet. A crow cawed rudely by the gates, making a few of the parishioners start.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Of course! _Stupid,_" he said, cursing himself. He turned on his heel and started towards the lychgate.

John glanced around and hurried after him. "What?"

"They're afraid!" exclaimed Sherlock, not breaking his stride. "That's what's different."

John frowned at him.

"There's a convincing-looking wall around the houses to protect the people from a monstrous wolf, yet no one thinks twice about two women living in a cottage outside it. The villagers weren't afraid. Now they are." He turned, walking backwards for a moment, gesturing at the people in the churchyard. "Look at them, glancing about nervously, wringing their hands, the menfolk posturing." He spun around again and carried on. "No, they hadn't really believed in the Beast, they were complacent. It was just a story they told their children, had been told to them as children. I'll warrant not one of them knows who originally made this so-called covenant with the wolf - it will be so and so's grandfather's father, once removed. Sacrificing a goat every month was just something they did because it's always been done. None of them actually thought the wolf was a _danger._" He frowned and flicked up his cowl. The shadowing about his face, the contrast between his pale skin and the shadow of the cowl made him appearance seem mysterious, ethereal.

John drew his attention back to the moment. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"This village - it doesn't make sense," said Sherlock. He looked at John. "If you were a rich farmer and your house and buildings were on the southern end of the village, farthest from the gate, wouldn't it be extremely inconvenient for you and your workers to travel through the entire village each day to tend to your fields?"

"It would, yes." John thought it through. A necessary inconvenience if you were in a state of siege, but- "Especially if you don't really believe the wolf's a danger, like you say." He suddenly caught on. "You think there's another entrance."

"Excellent, John. Yes. There must be. Come, let's see."

The wind-powered flour mill was at the southernmost end of the village. Next to it though, was a stone and wood home with several large outbuildings on its grounds.

"Master Frankland's house," noted Sherlock and John nodded, remembering Mistress Hudson saying that Henry Knight's cousin owned the big house by the mill.

There was a track, wide enough for a cart, leading around the side of the mill between it and Frankland's holdings. "Let's see where this goes, shall we?"

Sure enough the track led behind the mill to a large gate cut into the wall, latched with a stout piece of wood. There was no guard or gate house. "This would be left open most days, to allow workers access to the fields on the southern side of the village," said Sherlock.

"So our killer could have got back into the village this way?"

"Exactly." Sherlock looked around, up at the tall windmill tower. "I would very much like to speak to our miller, Master Murray," he mused. "And maybe we should offer our condolences to Mistress Stapleton, as she's so distressed."

The bell for None was tolling as they made their way back towards the bakery. John jumped aside at the sound of a cart rumbling towards them, pulling Sherlock out of the way. He recognised the driver.

"Ho there, John, Brother Sherlock," said Michael Stamford, pulling his cart to a halt.

"Michael," said John. "You're leaving us, then?"

"Back to Lauriston today, yes," said the merchant. They said their goodbyes and John was sorry to see the good-natured man leave. He bid Michael farewell and hoped he'd see him again the next time he passed through.

"John," said Sherlock when Michael had gone on. "You find William Murray and see what he knows about how things stand between Arthur Stapleton and Henry Knight. See if there's anyone with a grudge not just against Louise, but against either of Knight or her father."

John looked at him blankly, at a loss as to how to manage such a conversation without appearing odd.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again apparently reading his mind. "You're an amiable fellow, ask the man to join you for some ale."

"Right. I suppose..."

"I shall call on the Stapletons themselves, offer some consolation in their grief."

John shook his head. "Do you ever do God's work just for the sake of it? Or does it always have a purpose?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "God's work is always purposeful, John. Is it not God who has given me a keen intellect and passion for the truth? Who led me here to this village at this time? Although I would not like my brother to hear me admit as much; he thinks himself the voice of God already..." He shrugged. "Some would argue it is God's will for me to seek justice for Louise Mortimer. But it is always a danger to start assuming one's actions are divinely inspired."

"Glad you realise that," smirked John. "Although if you think it's God's will for me to have a drink with William Murray, then who am I to argue?"

"I knew you were a pious soul, John."

John found William Murray back at the church yard and introduced himself. A number of menfolk were headed for the tavern so it was no work at all to invite Murray to have a drink.

Murray was a bluff, hearty fellow, a village lad through and through. He was happy with his lot and saw no need to leave the village but he asked John questions about his adventures abroad with a kind of fascinated incredulity.

"This Beast business is a bit mad though, isn't it?" said John after their second mug of ale each.

"Bastard thing," said Murray, shaking his head. "I say we should go out right now, not wait until it takes wolf form, and kill it in its lair. Try at any rate; my mam said a hunting party went out looking for it once and three of them didn't return. "

"It's a werewolf then, you think?"

"So my old mam says, and if we don't leave it a goat once a month it will find its own supper. Could just be a whopping great monster of a thing. Either way, the only good wolf is a dead one. Can't let it live after what it did to poor Louise. Bloody wicked, that was."

John had to agree with that. "Terrible," he said nodding. "Henry Knight must be devastated, and her father."

"Both of them. Louise was the apple of her father's eye. No one was ever good enough for his Louise. Think the dowry was just an excuse because he didn't want to admit his little girl was all grown up - although I know there was some business with Robert that was causing both of them a headache."

"Frankland?" John asked.

"Yes - he was there the other night when we - ah- the body, you know - square-looking bloke, 'bout my height, 'bout your age -"

"Yes, yes, one of the pallbearers. Did he owe Mortimer money?"

"Not sure, Rob was always tight lipped about it. Bit awkward for Henry though, trying to impress Mortimer and there's his cousin having a dispute with the man over money."

"Who was the other bloke with you - Arthur was it?"

"Arthur Stapleton," said Murray. "Nice bloke, works for Robert. His sister is a bit - she's... sickly. Louise was good to her. Probably why Arthur fancied Louise for a bit, but soon realised he had no chance when she started going with Henry, proper-like."

"Do you think it would be possible for anyone to have wanted to harm Louise? This friar I'm staying with, Brother Sherlock, he thinks the whole thing is a simple murder. I don't know - how could anyone have done that to another person?"

Murray looked taken aback for a moment but then his expression grew thoughtful. "I ain't telling tales but - there's some has been saying it weren't the werewolf at fault at all, but Louise were bewitched and led out to be ate by the wolf."

"Who would want to do that?"

"Couldn't say, but Mortimer is a hard man to like, he don't make friends easily that one and he's quick to anger. I could name half a dozen who hold some grudge against him for one thing or another. Why Tom Lupton still ain't talking to him over a bag of nails and a shoe for a horse." He took a long swig of ale, draining his mug and John waved to Angelo for another. "Henry Knight's a good sort but he's the richest man in the village, there's some who feel he's got more than he deserves too. Don't get me wrong, near everyone in the village is a good sort, but if it came to it, and there was found to be someone got a witch to bedevil Louise, I wouldn't be surprised."

"What about Arthur Stapleton, he wouldn't be jealous over Louise still, would he?"

"Arthur? What? No. Arthur wouldn't hurt a fly, besides he's good mates with Henry. No."

John let the topic slide and Murray was keen to hear more about the naughty women of the Iberian peninsula. As they were parting, Murray told John to call on him once he returned from his journey with Sherlock and he would see about some work. John thanked him kindly and, feeling quite jovial, returned to the bakery to find Sherlock kneeling at prayer in their rooms. A frisson of pleasure bloomed upon seeing him and John felt instantly guilty. The man was a friar, _at prayer_ for pity's sake. He was going to leave quietly but Sherlock glanced up.

"John, you're back. Tell me what Murray said."

John repeated what he could remember of the conversation. Sherlock frowned. "Not entirely useless," he acknowledged. "I will meditate on it. Leave me in peace now."

John went back downstairs and helped Mistress Hudson and Master Egerton for a while and talked to Mistress Hudson about their trip on the morrow.

Sherlock had not appeared at supper so John went upstairs only to find him still at prayer in the darkening room. John was waved away brusquely so he lit two rush lights for the silly sod and came back downstairs again. Mistress Hudson just sighed and put Sherlock's bowl away as if it was to be expected. John lingered downstairs a while after supper, keeping Mistress Hudson company, and letting her chatter on with old stories and gossip about the village. Finally she took herself off to bed. John sat by the fire for a while until the bell for Compline had tolled and then went up to his room.

Sherlock was still deep in prayer, sitting now on the floor, forearms resting on his drawn-up knees, hands steepled together under his chin. His profile was set to good advantage at that angle, it reminded John of a sculpture of an angel or praying saint with his full, curved lips and commanding profile. John didn't interrupt but he let his gaze linger for a moment longer than it ought before chiding himself and focusing on his ablutions. He readied for bed, climbing under the covers and turning on his side away from the light. His shoulder was aching a bit, unused as he was to a soft bed, and he turned a few times, trying to get comfortable before he dozed off.

John was roused later by Sherlock climbing onto his side of the bed.

"It is no good. I am at an impasse," Sherlock said. "I need more information; the mystery must wait until I return."

John yawned. "All right then, 'night."

"Goodnight, John," said Sherlock settling down to sleep.

John turned over with a grunt, his shoulder still stiff and aching. He sat up, rolling it, trying to get the stiffness and ache out.

"Oh for -" exclaimed Sherlock in exasperation, sitting up as well. "John, here, if you please."

John looked at him, questioningly.

"Your shoulder is obviously bothering you. The application of pressure to the ligaments and muscles may prove beneficial in releasing trapped humours and allowing them to move freely within your body."

"Oh." John rolled his shoulder again. "I...no, I'll be fine. I just need to stretch a bit."

"John. Neither of us are going to get any sleep if you insist on tossing and turning all night. You appear to have a sanguine temperament but your nightmares indicates a surfeit of black bile. Galen of Pergamon wrote extensively on the topic. He advocated treatment using opposites: cold to treat a fever, exercises to strengthen a weakness - ergo, stiff muscles require movement."

John laughed softly. "Sorry. All right." He loosened the ties on his shirt and slid it off the troublesome shoulder.

Sherlock shifted behind him, and crouched, knees at his hips. John flinched as icy fingers touched his shoulder blade.

"Cold hands," he complained.

Sherlock laughed softly. "They'll warm up soon." He paused for a moment, fingers resting on John's scar. John suddenly felt self-conscious about the ugly marred flesh. He turned his face away, waiting for the inevitable pity or disgust.

He felt breath against his cheek and then Sherlock's fingers traced the line of the wound. "Your scar is fascinating, John. It is quite clean here on the entry side." John looked at him sharply and found only interest in the imperious profile. "I can see, however, that the exit was quite devastating. Intriguing scarring. You had a good surgeon." Sherlock sat back again and began rubbed his thumbs over the scar in small, firm circles.

"One of the best." He spoke stiffly, still self-conscious, but leaned into the friar's sure touch.

Sherlock began kneading John's shoulder with his fingertips and thumbs, sending a pleasurable ache through the tense muscles. He leaned his head to one side to give Sherlock better access.

"Ah, ah, oh, that - that's good, there -"

Sherlock's hand moved to John's right shoulder and soon John was hanging his head forward, awash with the release of cramped muscles and the pleasure of dissipating tension. Fingers moved down under his shoulder blades and John groaned.

"You see, your muscles were locked tight," murmured Sherlock, his deep voice right behind John's ear. "They needed to be loosened, relaxed."

That's when John realised that he might have made a mistake. Sherlock's long hands spanned his back over his shirt, thumbs following down John's spine, fingertips pressing against his ribs. Each releasing touch sparked a reaction in another region of John's body. He swallowed, no longer loose and pliant but acutely aware of the proximity of the other man, of his breath, warm against his neck, of knees pressed against his hips, thumbs working their way downwards, fingertips intimately stroking against his sides. The unexpected _want_ from this morning came rushing back; these same hands soothing his jaw, holding him, deft and firm, the blade against his throat, Sherlock's breath against his skin...need began to burn, low within his belly.

He was going to embarrass himself very soon if he didn't stop this.

"Sherlock," he tried and then cleared his throat. "Sherlock, enough," he said more firmly. Sherlock's thumbs dug into the spot about his tailbone, fingertips pressing firmly through the thin linen of his shirt. Soft hair brushed against the nape of John's neck, sending a shiver down his spine. "Enough!" John twitched away from his touch, turning to face him. Sherlock stared, eyes wide with surprise. John stared back, too aware, too close. His gaze flickered to Sherlock's lips. Oh, Jesus and all the saints. He wanted.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and a sudden flush coloured his cheeks. "John, I-"

"That's - um, that's fine. Thanks." John quickly shifted back, hoping his shirt would cover his treacherous flesh.

Sherlock's lips were parted, mid-sentence, blue-green eyes wide, hand frozen half-extended towards John. He snatched it back, curling it closed, and his jaw worked as he swallowed. "I overstepped," he said twisting away. "I made you uncomfortable."

John's face burned. Oh God, he'd noticed. He knew about John's unnatural desire. He _knew._ "Sherlock- I - "

"We should get some sleep," Sherlock said and abruptly flung himself over with a thump to face the wall.

John swallowed. "Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"Go to sleep, John," said Sherlock, face practically buried into the crack between wall and bed.

John rolled his shoulder again, it wasn't aching as much now.

"It feels better, thank you," he offered.

There was no response. John eased down on his side with his back to Sherlock, as close to the edge of the bed as possible. He lay there, guilty, and aching now in another way.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Thanks once again to my fabulous beta readers: Tsylvestris, Mojoflower, Mid0nz and Kikislasha. You guys are amazing. All mistakes and odd choices of course are my own doing. Thanks also to Kikislasha for more amazing art! Feedback and concrit loved and appreciated, if you're enjoying this please let me know, it motivates me!

**Warnings/contents for this chapter:** Het, internalised homophobia

* * *

Chapter 6: _And this is the more easy for a lover to summon up the image of his love from his memory, and retain it pleasurably in his thoughts. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 1 Question VII)_

John slept fitfully, his conscience pricking him. It had taken him an age to fall asleep, lying on the edge of the bed, taking great care not to accidentally nudge against Sherlock. He was dreading the morrow and the friar's inevitable repudiation of him for his perverted longings.

Sherlock, however, didn't give him a chance to wallow in guilt or embarrassment, waking him with a rough shake and a brisk, "Come on, John; early start, remember?"

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. His broken sleep was a blessing in one respect; at least he'd not had nightmares. Sherlock was pulling on his boots and tying on his rope belt. John rubbed the back of his neck and yawned, then pulled on his clothing and tucked his dagger into his belt. After quickly seeing to his toilet, he grabbed his pack, staff, and axe and thundered downstairs after Sherlock, who'd already gone on ahead.

Mistress Hudson had breakfast waiting for them and handed John a bundle of food for their journey. She kissed them both on the cheek before sending them on their way.

The sky was slowly lightening but the sun had not yet appeared in the east as a sleepy guard, the lad John recognised as Dimmock, opened the village gate for them.

They walked in silence for a while, along the main cart track from the village, through the fields towards the woods. John was unsure of what to say, still wondering if Sherlock was going to bring up his embarrassing reaction the previous evening. John had had his share of romps with lovely lasses and bold wenches, but he'd never been tempted into sodomy, no matter how lonesome the nights became on the battlefield. He'd certainly never had his prick quicken so warmly for another man before. More unsettling, though, was the fact that he'd never felt such an attachment before either, not with another man but also not with any of those comely wenches either, at home or abroad. He'd never felt his insides quiver just at the sight of someone, or get such a pleasant shiver down his spine at the mere sound of their voice. Sherlock was continually astonishing him; he'd never met anyone as astounding or fascinating. Maybe that was it. That must be all it was. John resolved to ignore the way his body responded to the man and just allow himself to admire his brilliance.

He risked a glance at his travelling companion. Sherlock, for his part, seemed content not to talk so John followed his lead and they walked in silence away from the village.

The light was dim in the woods, dawn's rosy fingers not yet penetrating the heavy canopy of leaves. John shivered, recalling that there was a large wolf, natural or not, living in these woods and it might not be yet abed. He reached back to touch the handle of his axe, stuck through his pack straps.

"What did you find out from the Stapletons?" he asked, the thought of the wolf reminding him of the topic.

Sherlock looked startled at his words, and John thought he saw something like relief flicker in his expression, but he answered readily enough. "Beryl Stapleton suffers from hysteria and may also experience delusions. She clearly blames herself for Louise Mortimer's death, although I have yet to determine whether she is involved or not. She appears to have seen Louise on the day of her death - there was a charity basket in the kitchen from the Mortimer's house, it still contained bread, no more than two days old. Louise Mortimer must have delivered it, or Beryl collected it. It is possible that Beryl delivered the fake note to Louise, thus her guilt. But from whom?"

"Her brother then?"

"Uncertain. Arthur Stapleton was obviously still infatuated with Louise before her death, his demeanor told me that, but I can see no firm evidence to link him to her murder. There is no clear motive for either of them - Louise was Beryl's only friend. Stapleton is embarrassed by his sister but he is grateful for Louise's kindnesses to her. Stapleton may have acted out of pique, bitterness, but why? Had he found out Louise was with child? That he would never win her now? His manner is not that of a killer, he has a weak and ineffectual personality, but sometimes it is those who dwell on the injustices, the unfairness they have been subjected to, that lash out unexpectedly at a later date."

"So it could be Stapleton? But how could you prove it?"

"I won't seek to prove it, John. Until I find evidence that points to him definitively, I cannot truly know. I have told you before it is a mistake to seek facts to suit a conclusion. I must continue to find facts. In the meantime, I have this errand."

"This errand, what do you have to do, exactly?"

Sherlock regarded him closely for a moment before apparently deciding to confide in him. "My brother has received correspondence from the Abbess there, Irene Adler. She holds a written confession from a rather august personage. It troubles my brother greatly and I have been given the task of viewing this document and acquiring it for safer hands."

"Blackmail?"

"In a manner, yes, although the Abbess asks for nothing, merely wishes my brother to know it is in her possession. Leverage. She is a clever woman. I have read some of her writing. She skates close to the edge of the heretical but is an expert in a number of languages and has written compelling arguments on the subject of ecstasies. It will be interesting to meet her."

John felt suddenly, oddly, resentful of the woman, and a little bit inadequate as well.

They walked in silence for a time, John keeping an eye on any shadows in the path ahead.

"Mistress Hudson said '_one_ of your mysteries' the other day," John said after a bit, when Sherlock wasn't forthcoming with more conversation. "Go on, tell us about some of the other ones, then."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "You'd like to know?"

"Of course I would," he said, and Sherlock began telling him about some of the other mysteries he'd solved, some of the other adventures he'd had and places he had been. John marvelled at his brilliance and told him so. After a while, Sherlock asked John about his time abroad and John joined in with his own anecdotes, and the time passed quickly and companionably.

They had long since cleared the woods as evening approached and the terrain they passed through turned rocky and scrubby, then developed into desolate heath as the trail wound up into the mountains. It was cooler here, the wind whipping over the landscape.

John searched out a campsite for the night and found a reasonable place sheltered by a few boulders and bushes. He picked a spot out of the wind to start a fire, finding twigs for kindling and enough timber for an acceptable blaze. He handed Sherlock the bundle of food from Mistress Hudson and then unfurled his bedroll. As he did so, it occurred to him that there was only only one bedroll between the two of them. Well, that awkwardness was easily remedied.

He cleared his throat. "Do you want the first watch or the second?"

Sherlock looked up. "Second."

He nodded as he sat down next to him and snagged some of the bread Mistress Hudson had given them. Sherlock picked at his food but did eat a little, and they both drank out of the jar of mead that Mistress Hudson had packed as well.

The sun sank behind the mountains and the little fire crackled, flames casting odd lights on Sherlock's sharp features. John found himself staring and quickly looked away. Sherlock had said nothing at all about the night before. He must not have noticed John's reaction the previous night, must have merely thought him uncomfortable with being touched so. The alternative was oddly humbling: they were in the middle of nowhere and the man had entrusted himself to John's care. Had John been inclined to press the issue, there would have been no one to intervene on the good brother's behalf. Sherlock's trust seemed to highlight the man's innocence, hidden beneath his brilliant and sharp exterior. It made John more determined than ever not to let him know about the unruly feelings he'd been experiencing.

Sherlock tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his robe and huddled down a bit, obviously feeling the cold.

"Right, off to sleep, you," John said, indicating the blanket roll. "Don't want to hear complaints at Nocturns about taking your turn."

Sherlock snorted. "I don't sleep much, John; these last few nights have been an anomaly."

"Oh." He considered this. "I didn't sleep much when I was travelling, either. Where's home, then?"

Sherlock frowned and was silent for a moment. "Mistress Hudson's is in fact the closest thing I have to a home at the moment."

This made John feel a bit sad, particularly when he realised that was probably the closest thing he had to home too. He'd always considered Camden 'home' when he was away fighting, but his parents were dead and buried, the family cottage and belongings sold. Now there was only the little room above the bakery. With a start, he realised that this sense of belonging was inexorably tied up with Sherlock's presence. When Sherlock was gone, would it still feel like home?

He fed some more wood into the fire, feeling melancholy.

"John."

He looked up. Sherlock was watching him. "Will you stay in Baskerville?"

"I've thought about leaving, but where else would I go?" he asked.

Sherlock's gaze dropped to his hands, tucked within his rough, woollen sleeves. "Anywhere you wanted."

"There's nowhere else I particularly want to be, at the moment. Here's fine."

Sherlock turned his face to stare out into the darkness and spoke no more. John poked the fire again and then pulled his cloak around him and made himself as comfortable as one could be, sat on the ground, against a rock.

After a while, Sherlock got to his feet and moved to the bedroll, getting under the covers for once and lying facing the fire. He lay awake for awhile and John watched him under the pretence of staring into the fire, from the other side of the flames.

It was quiet and still out on the heath. John got to his feet and walked about a bit to stay awake. He stood, looking up at the night sky, at all the stars, more than he could ever hope to count.

Sherlock woke just as the moon was nearing the middle of the sky. John had kept the fire going, mainly for something to do but also because it was quite cold up here near the mountains.

"Sleep, John," Sherlock said, rubbing at his eyes and getting to his feet, shivering a bit and tucking his hands back inside the sleeves of his robe.

John took off his cloak and handed it to him. "Here, put this on."

Sherlock blinked owlishly at him but took the cloak, pulling it around himself and crouching next to the fire.

"Wake me if you hear anything," John told him, and set the axe next to the bedroll before quickly crawling under the covers. The night air was chilly without his cloak. He pulled the blankets over his ears, the bedroll still warm from Sherlock's body, and he lay there watching Sherlock as he drifted off to sleep.

It was dawn and his nose and cheeks were cold when he awoke. Sherlock had let the fire die out and was leaning against the rock, wrapped in John's cloak, fast asleep.

"Oi," said John, getting to his feet. He kicked the other man's boot lightly and Sherlock woke with a start. "What kind of keeping watch do you call that?"

Sherlock flushed. "I wasn't asleep, I was thinking. Besides, there's nothing out here."

John grinned. "Remind me not to put you on first watch," he said. He pulled out the Widow Hudson's bundle of food and they ate a cold breakfast before packing up their belongings and starting off.

The walk became a climb, the trail growing steeper as they wound their way into the mountains. Finally they crested a peak and there, spread out before them, was Belgravia Abbey and its estate.

The abbey was situated in the middle of a valley patchworked with fields and cottages, surrounded on all sides by steep mountains. The abbey itself, an imposing stone structure, dominated the valley with a small village abutting its side.

It was just after midday when they arrived at the gates of the abbey. Sherlock handed the nun who met them a letter of introduction and they were left to wait.

After a little time the nun reappeared and, after bidding them to leave their belongings, ushered them along stone corridors to a room with a large and imposing door. She tapped gently then lead them in.

"Mother Abbess," said the woman with a curtsey and then hurried out, shutting the door behind them.

The abbess was surprisingly young - and beautiful, John thought. She had large eyes, a charming smile, fine cheekbones, and elegantly arched eyebrows. She pursed her lips as they entered.

"Brother Sherlock Holmes, it is quite a pleasure," she said in a voice that to John sounded a bit too much like a purr.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Reverend Mother," he said. He seemed to recall John's presence as an afterthought. "This is John Watson, my companion." He studied the abbess. "Your reputation precedes you."

Her lips curled into a smile and she set her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on his clasped hands, watching Sherlock through lowered lashes. "As has yours...and your brother's. What a shame he couldn't come in person."

"Mycroft never leaves Rome. Not unless the Pope leaves first."

"Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me - I need to know." She sat back in her ornately carved chair. "Who did it?"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"The girl murdered in that little village you've been bothering. Who was the killer?"

"That's not why I'm here."

"No, no, no, you're here for the confession but I'm afraid I can't give that to you, so since we're just chatting anyway..."

John frowned. "How do you know about that?"

"Baskerville is the closest village, apart from Lauriston. News travels fast."

"I haven't resolved it yet," muttered Sherlock tightly.

"Dear me, Brother Sherlock, I had heard you were quite the intellect. Isn't it a simple case of bewitchment?"

Sherlock studied her for a long moment. "You don't believe that any more than I do."

The abbess smiled. "No, but surely a little bit of peasant mischief isn't that hard to unravel?"

"A girl was murdered," said John indignantly.

"A shame, yes. Well she'll be in a better place now, one hopes...although, I heard rumours about her _situation_ too. Pregnant and unwed?" The abbess tsked. "Really, common people are so...carnal."

John's jaw tightened as her eyes flickered towards him briefly. There was something knowing in her expression.

"I understand you know a lot about weaknesses of the flesh," said Sherlock, studying her intently. "I need to _see _the confession, to reassure my brother that what you have in your possession is authentic."

Abbess Irene gave a little smirk and then stepped to her bookcase. She pulled down a large tome and drew a sheet of parchment from inside it.

"We both know if I hand this over to your brother it will be as if it never existed. I'm not asking for anything - well anything much, just your brother's...support...well...let's just say it would be very inconvenient should the Inquisition take an interest in this abbey."

Sherlock studied the abbess. "What's to stop my brother simply dissolving this document, along with your abbey?"

"You may tell your brother that I have placed copies with several trusted acquaintances in all of the Catholic kingdoms. If they receive news that something untoward has occurred to me or the abbey they have instructions to present their copies to the owners of various printing presses."

She flicked the parchment towards Sherlock with a shrewd smile. "This is not the original."

Sherlock flicked it out of her fingers and perused it. His cheeks flushed a little and he pursed his lips before handing it back. "Damning," he noted.

Abbess Irene settled back in her chair, her gaze skimming over Sherlock. "So. Do we understand each other?"

Sherlock returned her gaze, admiration in his expression. "Clearly. I will pass your 'offer' on to my brother."

Abbess Irene smiled a proprietary smile. "Now, since you're here, and I know you're fond of puzzles, perhaps you'd care to take a look at a little manuscript that has come to light."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. The abbess pulled a small scroll from a drawer in her desk and handed it to him. He gingerly unrolled it and John caught a glimpse of unfamiliar letters. Sherlock glanced down at the document, then up again at Abbess Irene.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"It doesn't matter _where. _I'd just love to know what it says, wouldn't you?"

Once, in a bazaar in Granada, John had seen a snake charmer pit a mongoose against a snake. The look he saw on the Abbess's face now reminded him of that mongoose as it had watched the snake, preparing for the kill.

"It's not Hebrew, yet..." Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Interesting." His long fingers tapped thoughtfully at his chin. "It's not even Aramaic." He leapt to his feet and strode to the window, holding the parchment to the light so he could see it more clearly. Abbess Irene got to her feet and followed him, standing close at his elbow. "It's obviously in code."

"Do you see - that must be the symbol for Christ," she said.

Sherlock glanced at her, clearly impressed. John saw a cat-like smile slide across the Abbess's face and he bit down on the hot resentment that rose in his throat. Her gaze flickered up to his, and her smile curved into a triumphant smirk. She placed her hand briefly on Sherlock's elbow, then let it slip away as she turned and walked towards John.

"It appears I've caught his attention, Master Watson," she said as she joined him, watching Sherlock at the window, poring over the document.

"You have," John said tightly.

She said mock kindness, "Oh don't be jealous, I'm just playing. I'll give him back when I'm done."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said stiffly.

"Oh, I think we both know you do," she said, turning to let her gaze glide over Sherlock's lanky form.

Sherlock looked back at them. "What?" He blinked and glanced at John. "John - this may take a while. You should head back to Baskerville...I'll be along when I've finished translating this."

John swallowed, stung by both Abbess Irene's words and Sherlock's distraction. "Do you want me to come back for you?"

Sherlock waved his hand absently. "I'm sure I can get a lift with one of the villagers."

John nodded stiffly and Sherlock frowned as his keen gaze suddenly focused on John for the briefest moment. "If I'm not back by Martinmas, come and fetch me."

John licked his bottom lip. He felt the abbess's calculating eyes upon him and felt his ears heat despite himself. "Very well. I will see you within the month."

"Yes, month," murmured Sherlock, already lost in thought again.

John inclined his head towards Abbess Irene and left her office. He found a nun waiting outside and she took him to the kitchens to replenish his supplies for the trip home. He picked up his pack, staff, and axe and wandered down to the village to see if there were any carts travelling towards Baskerville or Lauriston that day.

He was not in luck, and there would be no carts until the day after the morrow. John shouldered his pack and set off on foot. He figured he'd make it to the same campground they'd used last night at least.

It was a dull and thankless journey and as John wrapped himself up his bedroll that night, a rock at his back and no fire so as not to alert anything else out in the night to his location, he felt as alone as he ever had before he'd reached Baskerville. He decided he needed to get used to this. _If_ Sherlock came back, he would leave once he'd solved the mystery of Louise Mortimer's death. John had to look to his own company, must start getting his new life in order. He'd put that off for too long, following after Sherlock. Given his unruly reaction to the man, it might be a good thing to be parted for a few weeks - time and distance enough to calm any improper thoughts and return his affections to a more appropriate nature.

He made it back to the village before dusk the next day after an entirely uneventful journey. Mistress Hudson welcomed him back but was obviously disappointed not to see Sherlock as well. It was a sombre supper that night and John, feeling guilty, roused himself to be a jocular companion to his landlady.

The little room above the bakery seemed empty and cold that night without the sound of Sherlock intoning the evening prayers and the click, click of the rosary. John climbed into bed and rolled onto his side against the edge, forgetting for a moment that he didn't have to share.

That night he had another nightmare, this time of the mongoose, the snake, and a great wolf. He swung his axe and waded knee-deep in the gore that spewed from the cuts he made. He awoke gasping just as he cleaved the abbess's head from her body.

John was nothing if not practical, and the next morning he visited William Murray and was given a job in the mornings, mucking out the stalls belonging to the mill's oxen. They were housed in Robert Frankland's barn and shared space with his cows and goats. It was dirty work but it earned John a few pence a day and he determined to give half to Mistress Hudson and save the rest - he still had half a mind to return south, but not until after Brother Sherlock had returned. It didn't hurt that Robert Frankland's milkmaid, Sarah, was easy on the eye and gave him a very pleasant smile when he bid her good morn.

Afterwards he did a few chores for Master Egerton and Mistress Hudson, and then, finding himself free for the afternoon, a charitable thought occurred to him and he shouldered his new axe, left the village, and followed the path to the old woodcutter's cottage.

He walked into the yard and went straight to the wood pile and started chopping until Harriet appeared at his side, face like thunder and arms folded.

He put the axe down, rolling his stiff shoulder, and returned her gaze, raising his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes and marched off, lips pressed tight. Not having been told no explicitly, John returned to work, chopping a sizeable pile of wood. Then he went to the stream a little way from the house, shucked his shirt, and had a quick wash before returning to the village.

Soon he found himself in a routine: working at the barn in the morning, helping Master Egerton in the bakery after lunch, and then in the spare hours of the afternoon going out to the woodcutter's cottage and chopping wood. After that first day, Harriet came out of the cottage with her own axe and set to work beside him, and soon they had an unspoken rivalry, Harriet apparently taking it as a personal affront if John managed to chop more wood than she did. She still didn't speak to him for the first days, but on the third, after John collapsed, panting, on the wood heap, he earned a bright grin from his sister which he returned wholeheartedly. He looked around the rapidly diminishing wood pile. "I'll cut a tree down tomorrow," he said. "Do you have a cart to fetch it if I do?"

Harriet shook her head. "Only a hand cart. We'd have to cut the tree into pieces first to bring it home."

"Well then, that will keep me busy for a while longer."

Harriet looked at him thoughtfully, lips pursed and arms folded. "I suppose this is your way of atoning?"

"Is it helping?"

"It's not unhelpful."

"Well, then, I'll continue."

She took a deep breath. "You left at the start of the week, with that friar. I thought you'd left for good."

He felt chastened. He hadn't even thought about Harriet. "I was just his guard for the journey. I would have said goodbye, if I was leaving for good."

Harriet nodded sharply and turned on her heel, going back into the house.

The next day, true to his word, John took Harriet's hand cart, went into the woods, and cut down a large ash. He cut off the smaller branches and loaded the hand cart with those before setting about cutting the trunk into pieces. Harriet couldn't help but smile when he arrived pushing the laden cart.

"You'll sell this at market, yeah?" John said as he stacked the new wood on the wood pile.

Harriet nodded, looking pensive. "I suppose you'll want your share."

John shook his head. "I think I owe you, Harr'," he said. "I want to help."

Harriet quickly looked away, blinking rapidly and swiping at her nose. She nodded once then escaped into the house.

The next day, when he was about to leave, Harriet handed him a box. With a start, John recognised it as his father's toolbox. Surprised, John opened it. It still had all his father's woodcarving gear.

"You should have it," said Harry. "He'd have wanted you to have it."

"How do you still have this?" John asked. "You could have sold it -"

Harry shook her head. "I hid it. I didn't tell Benedict that I'd kept it; he thought it had been sold with everything else. I thought...I used to love watching you and Father oil the tools. You must have been ten, and I don't know, I thought I'd hold onto that as long as I could. I thought -"

"You thought I was dead too," said John flatly. He held the box for a long moment, then handed it back. "You should keep it. I'm not settled anywhere, Harry; I don't even know if I'm going to stay here. You keep it. I chose not to follow Father's footsteps when I ran off to the war. You have more right to it than me."

Harriet's eyes glistened as she took back the box. She nodded sharply. "Very well."

He bit his lip and rubbed the back of his neck. "Harr', that - it means a lot that you would offer it to me. It really does."

"Shut it," said Harry. "Now piss off home before a wolf eats you. It's getting dark."

Clara never appeared when John was there. He supposed it was because of Mother Colmer's embarrassing meddling. John let it go until he spotted Clara darting into the house upon his arrival. He left it until he'd almost finished, when Harriet seemed to be holding him in particular goodwill.

"Harry," he began, wondering how to phrase it. "Clara needn't fear, I don't intend to court her. I know Mother Colmer said...but, well, it's not my intention."

Harry stopped chopping and put her hand on her hip, catching her breath a moment before speaking. "Mother Colmer is an interfering old biddy. Clara isn't interested in taking another husband." She picked up her axe again and split a log. "She was mortified that it was even suggested to you."

John nodded. "Well, she needn't hide. I won't be casting my cap at her. She's a lovely woman but I know well enough when I'm not welcome."

Harry lowered her axe again and studied him. "Clara is the dearest person to me in life, John," she said with an oddly soft expression. She seemed about to say more but stopped. She struck her axe into the chopping block and wiped her hands on her apron. "I will tell her you have no expectations," she said and walked back into the cottage. John wasn't sure if he'd helped matters or not.

The next day, Clara came out with a mug of beer for each of them when they were nearly finished. She nodded to John and squeezed Harriet's arm fondly, smiling at her. Clara's belly looked even fuller than the last time he'd seen her, a little over a week earlier.

He looked up and saw that Clara had followed his gaze. "Near Christmas," she told him and then smiled at Harriet who beamed at her.

"I wish you well," said John. "Harry will look odd though, holding a babe. Be sure she doesn't drop the little thing."

Harry pretended to go off in a huff and Clara laughed. John grinned and went back to work. He felt happy, part of family again. He hadn't realised he'd been missing it. The hollow feeling that had been plaguing him since the trip from Belgravia was no longer such a gaping emptiness.

On Sundays, John went to mass with Mistress Hudson. On the first Sunday he was reminded of the funeral service, and it occurred to him that perhaps he should continue investigating Louise Mortimer's death even though Sherlock was away. He imagined solving the mystery by himself and presenting Sherlock with the answer when he returned. It wasn't a bad thought. He shifted a little and cleared his throat, forcefully turning his attention back to God and the saints and not tall, lanky Franciscans and their stupid, brilliant minds.

As Father Anderson intoned the mass, however, John went over what they already knew. He watched Stapleton and his sister, wondering what connection they had to Louise Mortimer's death.

By the following Saturday he still hadn't managed to find out anything new. The problem niggled at him and he was unwilling to give up on the idea of impressing Sherlock, but then, as he finished work in the barn, he happened to see Beryl Stapleton walking quickly past the mill with a basket. Wondering where she could be going, he kept a distance between them and followed her to a small worker's cottage not far from Robert Frankland's house. John could hear children inside, and the door opened to reveal a woman holding a bairn. Beryl took the baby from her arms and handed her the basket in return. John stepped around the side of a building and watched as Beryl kissed the baby's cheeks, jiggled it up and down, and cuddled it, all with an odd, pinched expression that somehow turned into silent weeping as she handed the babe back to its mother.

John watched her tidy her gown and take the now-empty basket from the woman before returning along the path she had taken. Well. Was it her babe? If so, who was the father? He wanted to ask Mistress Hudson, but was aware that it was Beryl Stapleton's reputation at stake. On the other hand, Sherlock would be impressed with this information. In the end he decided to broach the topic carefully with Mistress Hudson.

"What's the story with Beryl Stapleton?" he asked that evening as they sat by the fire. "Has she any suitors, then?" And immediately flushed as he realised how he must sound. "Not that - I mean, I'm not -"

"Oh, I wouldn't be interested in her, John, if I were you. She's terribly flighty, a bit...delicate. Nerves."

"Why's that, then, do you think?''

"Poor dove, born like that. Soft in the head."

John let the matter drop. If it was her baby it must be from a secret tryst, or something worse.

He brought up the topic of Beryl Stapleton with Robert Frankland's milkmaid the next morning as they did their chores before mass. Sarah Sawyer was a pretty lass with big doe eyes and a sweet smile. She and John had hit it off quite well from the start, with John surprising himself by casually flirting with the maid.

She looked surprised. "I hadn't picked Beryl Stapleton as your type, John," she said archly.

John grinned wolfishly, the look in Sarah's eye suddenly infinitely more interesting than Beryl Stapleton. "Go on, then, what's my type?"

Sarah smiled. "Why don't you tell me?"

He pursed his lips and tilted his head as he looked at her, pretending to consider. "Pretty eyes, lovely smile, a certain way of walking," he shrugged. "A bit of a blush - oh...look at that."

Sarah repressed a smile, her cheeks rosy. "It's my half-day today. How would you like to take me out picking flowers this afternoon?" she asked.

He raised his brow, a playful smirk on his lips. "It's a bit late for wildflowers isn't it?"

Sarah laughed. "Acorns then."

"Oh, well, if it's acorns..." he grinned.

"Meet me at half-way None," she said and slipped out of the door.

John exhaled and shook his head, and couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

As soon as he got home, John made use of the bathing barrel and dressed in clean underclothes, doing his best with the marks on his outerwear and his boots. He made his apologies to Harriet at mass, and then spent a goodly part of the service making eyes with a certain Mistress Sarah. She shook her head at him and he did his best to look innocent as she passed him, accompanying her mother home.

At about half-way None, he met her by the barn gate. She smiled. "I smell of cow, but you should be used to that."

John laughed. "You smell fine." He leaned in close and gave an exaggerated sniff by her ear. She smelt like soap and rose petals with only a hint of cow. "Quite lovely, actually."

"Charmer," said Sarah and smiling took his arm.

They left the village through the southern gate and went into the woods a short way, chatting amiably about nothing in particular.

"Acorns, huh," said John when Sarah came to a fallen log and took a seat.

"Oh, yes, there's hundreds about, can't you see them?"

John squinted up at the tree beside them, which happened to be a pine. "Hundreds." He grinned at Sarah and took a seat next to her. She smiled at him and shifted closer. John looked down at her hand resting beside his, a quick glance at her curvy womanly figure, then up at her lovely face, her pretty, sweet mouth. She was a lovely girl and John was not adverse to the idea of kissing her. It had been some time since he'd kissed a pretty girl, not since before he'd been invalided. There was only one way to see how he felt about that now and he leaned forward, glancing up at her and then ducking in to press his lips surely and firmly against hers. It was a kiss like Sarah herself, sweet and lovely, and though there was only a warm, pleasant feeling in his belly, not the tingling sparks he'd felt disconcertingly when Sherlock had been touching him, his prick still expressed some interest.

"Well," he said when he drew back, leaving her with glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and soft, light brown hair falling from her cap. "That was very nice. I think I'd like to pick acorns with you again, Mistress Sawyer."

She smiled at him and fixed her cap. "I think I might let you, Master Watson."

As they walked back along the path, John bent to pick up an acorn. He slipped it into Sarah's hand, and leaning against each other a little and teasing each other just a bit, they returned to the village.

The next morning as John did his work in the barn, he spied Sarah and she smiled and blushed a little. They made plans to meet again on the next Sunday, same as before. That night as John took to his bed, tired but happy, feeling useful and wanted, he thought perhaps he'd found a place here in Baskerville after all.

As the next Sunday dawned, Sherlock still hadn't returned. John was surprised when Mistress Hudson told him that Martinmas would be two days hence. He'd have to leave for his journey to Belgravia Abbey the day after the morrow. The idea of repeating the long, lonely journey to Belgravia didn't thrill John, especially as he now had something to leave behind, but the thought of seeing Sherlock again filled him with an unexpected warmth. Despite filling his days and taking the first firm steps towards establishing a life here in Baskerville, he found he'd missed the man, often wondering what Sherlock would think of something that he'd seen or heard. He'd also found himself wondering what had happened at the abbey, worrying at the thought as at a loose tooth, remembering well the proprietary look on the abbess's face. Sherlock was brilliant but an innocent, and it was a wicked thought but John suspected the abbess was not so unworldly. For his own part, he took comfort in his blossoming flirtation with Sarah, telling himself that his improper lusts were now set aside and his friendship with Sherlock could continue untroubled.

That afternoon John and Sarah walked out, this time to the northern end of the village. John had spotted a secluded spot behind a hedgerow that he'd assured her would probably have hundreds of acorns.

They had just reached the gates when they had to stand aside for a cart. John felt a shock run through him as it passed and he saw a tall familiar figure on the back. The cart drew to a halt and Sherlock jumped down. "Just a moment," John said to Sarah and ran over to the Franciscan, a grin splitting his face. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked around sharply and stood waiting, an answering quirk to his lips. "John," he said, and his smile grew wider.

"Well," said John, taking him in, feeling suddenly, oddly breathless, that same spark of warmth curling his insides. Sherlock's sharp features, his intriguing lips, and those intense, pale eyes were even more striking than John's memory had allowed. He quashed the thought, it was excitement and admiration, that was all - good and proper feelings. "You're back, then."

Sherlock gripped his shoulders, positively vibrating with excitement. "I finished the translation, John. It's absolutely fascinating - wait until I tell you about it!"

John grinned, overcome again by Sherlock's brilliance and infectious enthusiasm. "Well done. That's fantastic." They stood for a moment, just looking at each other. John licked his lips and huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

Sherlock released his shoulders and took a step back. "Come, John, let's go back to the bakery. I've had a long journey-"

John automatically took a step forward but then stopped, remembering Sarah. Oh. He coughed. "Um, you go ahead. You'll have to tell me about it all when I get home later."

Sherlock frowned. "Later? Why?"

John glanced at Sarah who was standing back a little ways, curiosity alive on her face. "I'm taking Sarah for a walk."

Still frowning, Sherlock's gaze swept over Sarah and then over John. He looked between the two of them, and his expression grew closed. "A _walk_? _Why?_" Then he gripped John's shoulder again, pulling him aside. Leaning in urgently, he said, almost pleadingly, "_John_, don't be dull. You can do that another time. Besides, I want to talk about the murder."

Dismayed at himself and irritated, John shook his head. No. He couldn't put his new life on hold for a mendicant friar who might be gone again without notice. He remembered Sherlock's preoccupation with the abbess and had uncharitable thoughts. Anyway, he had done his best to put aside his unnatural feelings for Sherlock. What he'd felt for the man was impossible, surely Sherlock should be glad John had turned his attentions elsewhere?

"We'll talk later, all right?" He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and stepped away. "It's good to see you again."

"John?"

"We'll talk at supper," he said over his shoulder, returning to Sarah. She slipped her hand in his arm and smiled so very sweetly. If she seemed a little flatter, a little less bright now that Sherlock had returned, John refused to acknowledge it, just as he ignored the urge to look back as they continued on their way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's notes:** Thanks so much to Tsylvestris, Mid0Nz and Aranel Parmadil for beta-reading and brit picking, you guys are amazing. Thanks also to everyone who left feedback, favourites and kudos. If you're enjoying this let me know, it motivates me to focus instead of getting distracted by omegaverse smut.

**Warnings for this chapter:** character death, animal death, blood, internalised homophobia

* * *

**Chapter 7:** _For when a man sees a wolf, he runs away, not because of its ugly colour or appearance, which are ideas received through the outer senses and conserved in his fancy; but he runs away because the wolf is his natural enemy. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 1 Question VII)_

John was in a good mood when he returned after seeing Sarah back to her mam's that evening. Sherlock, however, was not. He glowered at John as he took his seat at the supper table.

"Look at you, all aglow after visiting with your sweetheart," cooed Mistress Hudson.

John coughed and tried not to grin. "I had a nice walk with Sarah, yes, thank you, Mistress Hudson."

Sherlock glared at him balefully.

John raised his eyebrows. Then he sighed. "Oh, don't be like that. Come on, tell me about your translation."

Sherlock sniffed and poked at his supper with his spoon. "It is of no matter."

"Bollocks it isn't. Go on, tell me about how brilliant you are."

"John! Language!" exclaimed Mistress Hudson.

"Sorry, Mistress Hudson," replied John with a grin. He turned back to Sherlock. "So?"

Sherlock sniffed again disdainfully and then sighed in a put-upon manner. "Very _well,_" he said. "Although I'm sure it's hardly as interesting as the colour of _Sarah's_ eyes or how the moonbeams bounced off her hair or some such rubbish."

John raised his eyebrows, amused. "Bounced off her hair? Really? It's a good thing you're a monk, is all I can say."

"Friar. Not a monk."

"The translation," said John firmly. "What's it say, then?"

Sherlock glanced up at him from below his lashes, and a very small smile twitched at the corner of his lips before he sat up straight and launched into a detailed explanation of how he'd interpreted the five different languages and source documents used within the parchment in order to break the cipher, revealing a treatise written by a persecuted sect of the Franciscan order.

He was animated, positively glowing under John's rapt attention as he recounted his discoveries and deductions. For his part, John marvelled at each success and interjected copious words of praise without hesitation, and when Sherlock finished his tale, John laughed, beamed at him and shook his head in wonder. "Amazing. You. Are. Just. Amazing."

Sherlock ducked his head but John still caught a glimpse of the pleased smile that creased his face.

"I kept the translation; the abbess is nervous about the Inquisition. Finding something like this in her collection could be unfortunate for the abbey." Sherlock's lips quirked sardonically. "_Particularly_ as I managed to obtain the original copy of the confession _and _a list ofthe Abbess's contacts in the Catholic kingdoms and she therefore no longer has any leverage with my brother. Mycroft is going to have to finally see reason and post me somewhere civilised."

John had not been expecting that and all the warmth and pleasure that had been diffusing through his blood evaporated. Of course. Sherlock would go back to Rome or Paris or London or _anywhere_ other than Baskerville. "Yes, of course. Well. You're wasted here, really."

Sherlock's smug expression slipped. He licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably. "John, I -"

John looked up at him, forcing a smile. "It's fine. Of course it's fine."

Sherlock's mouth twisted. He tapped his fingers irritably, then stood up abruptly. "Thank you, Mistress Hudson. I am feeling rather weary after my journey. I'll bid you goodnight."

"Oh! Sherlock, dear, you're not going to bed already?" cried Mistress Hudson to his departing back.

John felt his ears heat. He stabbed viciously at the meat in his bowl and ate without tasting anything.

A single rushlight was burning when John came up to the room. Sherlock was already on the bed, turned to face the wall. John stripped down to his underclothes and climbed under the covers. He shifted closer to the edge, unused now to sharing a bed after so many weeks.

"You didn't fornicate with her," said Sherlock suddenly.

John looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock's back. "Sorry? No, I didn't, not that it's any of your business, but for the record, I fucking _knew_ you'd be able to tell."

Sherlock gave a startled laugh. "You did?"

John grunted and tried to get comfortable. "Of course you'd be able to bloody tell; you can tell everything." He didn't mention that at the moment when his hand had finally made the journey to Sarah's dimpled knee, he'd suddenly remembered bony ones, jabbed into his back in the bed in the room above the bakery, and how the owner of said knees was an eerily observant prat who'd know immediately exactly how far John's hand had gone.

"_Are_ you going to bed her?"

"Again, none of your business." He wouldn't mind shagging Sarah. He would not mind at all, thank you very much. It was a relief, knowing that his prick was behaving normally, that he could still be swayed by womanly curves, the soft swell of a bosom, and the thought of a warm quim. He had decided his unnatural reaction to Sherlock had merely been a case of confusing his friendship and his new-found health with a different type of affection.

"What if she gets with child?"

"Then I'll marry her," he said, properly irritated now. Why was it Sherlock's concern? John was building a life here, an honest and simple life, and if that involved a little irregularity in the order of things then it was often done and none would question it after the fact.

Sherlock's silence was a more eloquent chastisement than any lecture.

"Yes, all right," he muttered. "Not everyone is happy to be celibate."

"Your immortal soul is my business, John."

He kept his peace, the thought that his soul might suffer worse if he did not focus his attentions on Sarah echoing loud in his mind. He lay wakeful for a while. Sherlock's breathing didn't change, which meant he was still awake too.

"What happened with the abbess, then?" John finally asked.

"What do you mean?"

He swallowed. "Never mind."

There was more silence, then, "You think-" Sherlock paused before continuing carefully. "John, I think you should know, I take my vows seriously and consider myself married to the Church."

John felt instantly guilty. "No, no, of course you do. Sorry, that was uncalled for."

"I know it happens. It's not uncommon. Between male members of the clergy as well, especially among the most powerful, but there are some of us that respect our vows, John. I-" He seemed genuinely distressed and John felt even worse, not just for the unjust implication but for the secret wish that Sherlock would violate those vows with him.

"I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even. Sorry."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell.

"John," said Sherlock suddenly.

John swallowed. "Yes?"

"She did...imply."

"Oh."

"I refused."

"Oh."

"I wasn't interested."

"I'm...that's good. I'm glad. You, um, good."

"I'm glad you think so."

"I do. I'm glad," John's heart pounded uncomfortably and he lay frozen.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Goodnight, John," he said and John heard him shift, lying down again.

"'Night, Sherlock." John hesitated before pressing on. "I'm glad you're back."

There was a long moment before Sherlock answered. "So am I, John."

He lay awake for a while, comforted by Sherlock's presence but also troubled. Eventually he fell asleep and although his dreams turned vivid and vicious, he was roused from them by Sherlock's voice and a soothing hand on his side, and settled back to sleep again.

The next morning he woke to find an arm draped about his middle and soft breath puffing against the back of his neck. Knees dug into the backs of his thighs and a foot was hooked over one of his own. A deceitful thrill ran through him before sense and decency asserted itself. What was he thinking? Would he never be rid of these wicked thoughts? Quickly he slipped from bed and dressed hastily but still didn't make it out the door before Sherlock woke. The friar sat up, hair tousled and face soft and creased from sleep. He frowned, then glanced down at the bed and quickly up to John, obviously realising his odd position in the bed.

"You had a nightmare. I must have fallen asleep praying for you.".

John willed himself not to blush. "No, it's fine. Least I didn't have your knees in my back this morning." He finished fastening his cloak. "I have to go."

"Go? Where?"

"Work, Sherlock. I have a job."

"Why?"

"To earn money. I can't live on Mistress Hudson's goodwill forever. Besides, I'll need to buy new boots eventually."

Sherlock scowled. "I wanted to talk to you about the murder. It helps me think. When do you finish?"

"Mid-morning. But then I help Mistress Hudson. Earn my keep."

"Very well, meet me after that."

"Um..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, what now? _Sarah,_ I suppose?"

"No, Harriet, actually. I've been helping my sister in the afternoon, chopping wood, mostly." Sherlock's disappointment made him take pity. After all, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that John could not control his wanton thoughts. "Why don't you come with me? You can talk to me then."

"While you chop wood."

"Yes."

Sherlock's expression didn't change. "Yes, fine. All right."

"You will?"

Sherlock flopped over onto his side, facing the wall. "I said yes. Don't make me repeat myself, John, it's tedious."

True to his word, Sherlock accompanied John when he set off for the woodcutter's cottage after luncheon.

John realised he hadn't told Sherlock his discovery that Beryl Stapleton may have had a secret baby, and remedied the omission.

"Good, John, very interesting. If Beryl had given Louise the note that lured her from the village perhaps it was because she was being blackmailed - by someone who knew of her secret. It may be enough cause to override any natural loyalty Beryl might have held for Louise."

"Who, though?"

"Someone who knew of the arrangement with the family that took the child in. Not the family themselves - they would potentially lose whatever benefit they had gained by taking the child. No, it must be a third party. I will think on it. We can surmise that Louise knew of Beryl's predicament." He spoke as if to himself, even though he occasionally addressed his musings to John. "Let us consider what we know. Someone, possibly Beryl Stapleton, gave Louise Mortimer a forged note, supposedly from her betrothed, Henry Knight. It caused her to leave the safety of the village on a night of the full moon, whereupon whoever sent the note attacked and killed her and left her body for wolves." Sherlock pressed his long fingers to his lips as he thought. "We have ruled out her fiancé and her father. The only person we have identified who may have a grudge against Louise herself is Arthur Stapleton, Beryl's brother. We know Louise's father had financial problems that may have prevented him raising the contracted dowry for Louise and Henry's marriage. We also know that Robert Frankland and Nicholas Mortimer had some business dealings." He looked sharply at John. "You say this woman Beryl visited was in one of the cottages by Robert Frankland's house?"

"Frankland? You think he's connected?"

Sherlock's eyes shone as he followed this train of thought. "Stapleton works for Frankland. It is possible he has sufficient leverage over the Stapletons to ensure their assistance. But why - I need to know what financial interest Frankland had with Mortimer. If he owed Mortimer a substantial sum of money, if Mortimer needed it to pay the dowry, we may have a motive."

"You think he'd kill a girl just to stop from losing some money? He seems pretty wealthy, and Henry Knight said he'd have waived the dowry anyway."

"But Mortimer wouldn't hear of it. Stubborn pride?"

John remembered the stone-faced blacksmith, his anger and misery. Stubborn pride that may have cost his daughter her life.

"But you are right," continued Sherlock. "Surely it was not such a sum that it would break Frankland."

They had reached the gate to the woodcutter's cottage by then and the dog, giving a welcoming bark, ran out to meet John, wagging his tail.

John gave the mastiff, Prince, an affectionate pat and then headed for the wood heap. Sherlock perched on the pile of wood, fingers steepled under his chin, looking thoughtful as John set to work splitting logs and stacking them into a neat pile. Sherlock occasionally made comments that John decided weren't actually addressed to him.

He'd been working for a little time when Harriet appeared, eyebrows raised inquiringly at Sherlock's presence. "You've brought your friar, then, I see," she noted as she joined him, picking up her own axe and setting to work.

John stretched and shed his cloak, growing warm from the effort. He grinned and introduced his sister properly. Sherlock glanced towards her and nodded before returning to his thoughts. "Don't mind him," said John. "Busy thinking."

Harriet shook her head and they both returned to work.

"Martinmas is tomorrow," she said. "Would you care to help slaughter our pig? You may have some of the meat to give to Mistress Hudson."

John nodded. "That is good of you, Harr'. I'll see to the oxen early and be here as soon as I can." He swung his axe and saw Harriet looking past him with an odd expression. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder only to see Sherlock quickly look away, a flush upon his cheeks. John blinked and looked back at Harriet, who seemed bemused. He ignored her and returned to his work, but wondered at the expression he'd seen on Sherlock's face.

"How is Sarah Sawyer, John?" Harry asked then in a careless tone.

"She's well, thank you, Harriet," replied John, giving her a sideways glance.

Harriet hummed airily to herself, a small smile on her lips. "You must take some of the pig for her and her mam tomorrow as well."

"I will, thank you."

She shot him a glance. "She's pretty, John, and works hard. If not for want of a dowry, she'd have found a husband long ago."

"Well, I will cross that bridge if I come to it. I'm hardly in a position to get myself a wife yet."

"Best keep your breeches on, then," muttered Sherlock. John looked over his shoulder at the man, who smirked at him. Harriet gave a shocked laugh. John coughed and returned to cutting wood.

Clara joined them soon after with two mugs and a jug of beer. Harriet introduced Sherlock and Clara smiled in her usual lovely way. John downed his beer then refilled his mug and handed it to Sherlock, who lifted it to his lips and swallowed in deep gulps. John was struck by the movement of the pale of column of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple. He tore his gaze away and glanced up only to find Sherlock staring at him over the rim of the mug. He looked away, wetting his lips and held his hand out for the mug.

He cast around desperately for a topic of conversation as Sherlock placed the mug in his palm. "How's Henry?" John asked Clara, recalling that she was Henry Knight's sister.

"As well as can be expected, still terribly saddened by Louise's death. I doubt he will ever recover."

"Robert Frankland is your cousin, is he not?" said Sherlock suddenly.

"Yes. The son of our great-uncle."

"Do you know if he owes Nicholas Mortimer money?"

Clara looked taken aback at the direct question. "No...I don't think so. He is the richest man in the village, aside from Henry, of course."

Sherlock pursed his lips and stared off into the distance. Suddenly he got to his feet. "I need to think. I'll be back at the bakery."

John glanced at Harriet. "I'm almost done - I'll walk you home. See you early tomorrow, Harr'?"

"Yes. As soon as you can be here." She wrinkled her nose. "You could consider going back by the stream and having a wash, Johnny; you smell of ox."

John grinned, picked up his cloak, hefted his axe, and waved the women goodbye. "Can you wait? I won't be long," he said to the friar, veering off the path.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but followed along as John led the way across the meadow to the stream. He threw his cloak on a rock and unbelted his overgown, shedding the garment and laying it beside his cloak. He turned his back and drew off his shirt, then took off his boots and hose. He waded into a deep part of the stream where he could sit waist-deep and swiftly immersed himself in the chill water with a gasp.

When he glanced up from his quick wash, he saw Sherlock looking away, out into the woods. "Are you coming in?" he called.

"No." Sherlock glanced back and then looked away again, and John saw that same odd expression on his face that he'd caught earlier, along with a light blush on prominent cheekbones. He swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious and absurdly glad that the water was so cold. He clambered out and took up his cloak, drying himself briskly. Sherlock resolutely kept his face turned and John did not waste time dressing.

"Let's go," he said tersely and started off through the woods back to the meadow, not waiting to see if Sherlock followed.

There was a tenseness between them and John felt it keenly, unsure of the reason or what to make of Sherlock's actions. Surely Franciscan friars were used to communal bathing? Was the man so modest that he could not bear to see another man's skin?

"Give Mistress Hudson my apologies for this evening; I need to meditate," Sherlock said as they reached the bakery.

John nodded dumbly and watched him climb the stairs to their room.

Sherlock was sitting on the chair in the corner, still deep in prayer or meditation, when John returned to their room after supper. He did not look up as John entered nor as he readied for bed. When John stirred to wakefulness much later in the night, all but one of the rushlights had burnt out and Sherlock still sat in the corner, fingers arched under his chin.

"Here," John said.

Sherlock blinked and his eyes slid towards John although the rest of him didn't move.

"Come to bed, idiot, you'll get a crick in your neck sleeping there."

"Not sleeping, praying."

"Well, it's late. Pray tomorrow. God will understand."

Sherlock snorted. "Forgive me if I don't take you as an expert on the opinions of the Almighty, John."

John huffed a laugh. "Suit yourself. Light another light if you're going to sit up."

Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner, stood, and stretched, rolling his shoulders. "I suppose I may pray in bed as well as out of it," he admitted.

John lay back down on his pillow. Sherlock jostled the bed as he climbed over John to reach his own side.

"'Night," John mumbled, settling back down into sleep.

"Goodnight, John."

John didn't remember dreaming that night, but when he awoke early the next morning Sherlock once more had an arm wrapped around his waist and was breathing softly against his neck. John found himself unable to be discomfited by Sherlock's position and that dismayed him more than the feeling of warm breath and a warm body pressed close against his back. Remembering he needed to make an early start, he carefully eased out of Sherlock's embrace.

The whole village was preparing for Martinmas as John set off for the ox stalls in the dawn light. Pigs that had been fattening through the autumn as well as other animals the villagers could not afford to keep through winter would be slaughtered. Robert Frankland's swineherds had already started boiling a large cauldron of water in the yard and were busy sharpening their butchering knives. He could already hear the sounds of squealing pigs, lowing cattle, bleating goats and sheep as other villagers started the bloody work of the day.

He finished his chores quickly and reached the woodcutter's cottage in good time. Soon Harriet and Clara's hog was slaughtered and hung to bleed out, and the butchering began. It was a long process, but by the early afternoon he and Harriet had finished and Clara had taken the various pieces away to smoke or wrap or turn into sausages. Harriet went off to slaughter a goose for supper that evening. Henry Knight was joining Clara and her for the traditional feast to celebrate Saint Martin, the end of autumn harvest and the beginning of winter and the Advent fast.

John went down to the stream to wash. He had stripped off his outer wear before beginning the messy work so as not to get it stained with blood. When he returned to the cottage, Harriet, her skirts covered in soft downy feathers from the goose she'd been plucking, handed John two packages full of pork and herbed sausage meat. He thanked both the women and wished them a happy feast that evening before returning to the village.

On the village green, preparations were underway for a fair and wood had been stacked for a bonfire. John duly delivered his bounty to the intended recipients and received a kiss on the cheek from each in return.

"Will you come to the bonfire tonight?" Sarah asked him and he readily agreed to meet her after Mistress Hudson's Martinmas feast.

Mistress Hudson had the traditional goose prepared as well as some of the pork and sausages John had brought her. Even Sherlock ate heartily, the friar apparently being in a more sociable mood that day.

"John," he said in a low voice when Mistress Hudson had bustled off to fetch more mead from her cellar, "I must speak with you after supper. I've made a discovery."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" John asked. "I'm to meet Sarah at the bonfire tonight."

Sherlock drew back, a frown creasing his brow even as his gaze flickered over John's face. "Forget that, this is important; it's the murder, John-"

"And can't it wait until tomorrow?" he repeated. "Finding the culprit tonight isn't going to bring Louise Mortimer back. We'll talk later, all right?"

Sherlock pouted, actually _pouted,_ and sat back in his seat, stabbing at his food. He attended to his dinner and nothing else for the rest of the meal. John raised his eyebrows and shook his head at Sherlock's childishness. Besides, he wasn't going to disappoint Sarah.

"I'm off out, then, Mistress Hudson," said John once the meal was over. "Thank you for a wonderful feast." He kissed her on the cheek and she laughed and patted his hand.

"You young people have a dance for me," she said.

Sherlock pushed back his chair and stalked up the stairs to their room.

It was quite late before John came to bed that night. The room was dark, all the rushlights burnt out. He stubbed his toe on the bed leg and sat down a little too heavily.

It had been a grand evening. The memory of Sarah's pretty face, flushed and glowing as she danced past him in the light of the bonfire, replayed in his memory, and he could still hear music and laughter from down on the village green.

"You're drunk," said Sherlock in a voice dripping with revulsion.

He just laughed as he pulled off his boots. "I've been carousing down in the village; of course I'm drunk."

There was a snort of disgust and the sound of Sherlock turning over in bed. John undressed and climbed under the covers.

"You should have come down, it was a jolly gathering."

"It is hardly of interest to me, watching _peasants_ get drunk and fondle their womenfolk."

John's good humour drained away rapidly in the face of Sherlock's disapproval. "Right. Well. This drunken peasant is going to sleep. Good night." He thumped his pillow and tried to get comfortable, Sherlock's disdain cutting more than he wanted to admit.

"John?"

"What?"

"I quite like peasants."

John huffed, but his good humour was revived.

He buried his face in his pillow, shut his eyes, and attempted to ignore the spinning in his head enough to fall asleep. He had almost succeeded when a sudden, terrible scream jolted him awake.

He shot up, heart pounding. It came again: an agonised cry, now joined by shouts and noise from the village green. He was out of bed in an instant, fumbling in the dark for his boots and clothes. He heard Sherlock moving beside him too, pulling on his shoes as well. Mistress Hudson opened the door to her bedchamber as John opened the door to theirs. She held up her rushlight.

"Oh heavens, what could that be?"

"We'll find out. Stay inside, Mistress Hudson," said John, and he and Sherlock hurried out the door and towards the uproar on the green, along with other villagers who had also heard the noise.

They were accosted by young Dimmock. "John Watson?" he panted, gripping John's shoulder. "Thank God, come quickly. Your sister -"

John's heart lurched. He twisted out of Dimmock's grasp and ran full-tilt towards the crowd by the gates. He pushed his way through to the centre where a group of people had surrounded a woman who was sobbing uncontrollably.

John touched one of them on the shoulder and they moved aside - John felt his stomach clench. It was Harriet, sitting on the ground, covered in blood, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth open in a gasping sob. In her arms was the limp, bloody figure of Clara Colmer. Clara's face was pale and injured, dark hair hanging loose and uncovered, her eyes were shut and her head hung limply, her throat and gown soaked red.

Magistrate Lestrade stood up as John approached.

"Move away, move out of the way!" he shouted at the crowd. "We must take her to Mistress Hooper - for God's sake, move!"

John was pushed back and he saw two men lift Clara's lifeless body and follow Lestrade through the crowd.

"Harriet, Harriet!" John gasped, pushing his way in. "It's me, John. Harr', what happened-"

She looked up with despair on her face and clutched at him with bloody hands. "John! God, Jesus, John- Clara - The wolf - " she dragged him to her and he gathered her into his arms.

"Shh, shh," he crooned while Harriet wept against his shoulder, as if they were children again and a bitter storm was raging outside their cottage. John's own mind was in turmoil. He felt a hand on his shoulder and it was only after some time that he looked up and realised it was Sherlock. He pulled back and stroked Harriet's tear-stained face. "Shh, pet, now let's get you back to Mistress Hudson's -"

"No! No! I must be with Clara - the baby! Holy Mother, Saint Brigid-" She clutched at John more frantically, shaking him. "The baby, they have to save the baby!"

John glanced about him at equally dismayed faces. "Come, let's take you inside. Brother Sherlock will find out what's happening. Mistress Hooper will do her best -"

"Clara's dead. She's dead. I - tried to get here quickly, I tried, but- oh, John!"

John got to his feet and then lifted her up. She clung tightly as he shifted her weight and then set off for Mistress Hudson's with her in his arms. The wolf. It wasn't even a full moon- Mother Mary and all the saints - he should have known, should have insisted on staying with them, it wasn't safe- Why-

Sherlock was at his side and pounded on the door of the bakery for Mistress Hudson to let them in. John carried Harriet into the main room and sat her on the chair by the fire while Mistress Hudson bustled around fetching a shawl and stoking the fire. John knelt at Harriet's feet and rubbed her hands, trying to warm them. Her fair hair was uncovered, and she was dressed only in her nightgown, stained a dreadful red, and her feet were bare and scratched bloody, nails torn. John vaguely heard Sherlock talking to Mistress Hudson and then the slam of the door.

"There, see, love, Sherlock will see how things are," he murmured soothingly.

Mistress Hudson appeared at his side with a mug of mead, which he handed to Harriet. She sipped at it dully. He exchanged glances with the Widow Hudson, who hovered anxiously beside them.

"Harry, can you tell me what happened?" he asked gently.

She turned a pale face towards him. Her whole body shook. "We were abed. Henry and the others had left earlier, but we'd stayed awake a while, we'd had some of Beryl's perry- There was a knock - I went to answer it but there was no-one there. Then I heard Prince growl and bark by the barn. I took my axe and went to check - I had gone, I'd only gone around the cottage - and then Clara screamed and I ran back and - " She shuddered and grasped at John's shoulder for support. "It was a man, John, he was - he had Clara by the arm, she was trying to pull away. I shouted but - I _saw, I saw_ -" She whimpered and shook her head, lips pressed tight.

A shiver ran down John's spine. "What, Harr', what was it?"

She gasped in a breath and fixed John with a terrible gaze, eyes wide and almost completely black. _"He became a wolf." _

John sat back with a gasp. "What? How?"

"I don't know!" Harriet cried shrilly, the sound sudden and shocking. "One moment there was a man, the next a wolf - I...I don't know, I don't -"

"Shh, shh, it's all right," urged John, stroking her arm as she calmed. John swallowed, uncertain if he wanted to hear more, or if he should even ask. "What then, Harr'?"

"I - I don't really remember. I had, I had my axe and I ran at them and the - _it_ ran away and - Clara was still alive." Harriet's lip trembled and tears pooled in her eyes once again. "She was still alive and I carried her- I thought if I got here quickly-. But, she...she didn't, she -" Harriet wiped at her running nose and sniffed wetly. "She told me goodbye. She told me- She- the baby, John. I thought maybe the baby would live." Tears ran down Harriet's face unchecked and she sat mutely, staring into the fireplace.

John wrapped his arms around his sister and held her for a long moment, letting her weep. He felt a light touch on his shoulder and glanced up at Mistress Hudson.

"Why don't you go and find out what's happening, John," she said kindly. "I'll see to Harriet. A wash, a fresh gown, and a nice warm bed is what she needs."

John nodded, got to his feet, and left for the midwife's house.

There was a group of villagers in front of Molly Hooper's and just as John approached Henry Knight stormed out of the midwife's door, pushing through the crowd. John felt his throat close as Knight brushed past, his expression hunted, pain and anguish writ clear. John clenched his jaw and watched him go in silence. There but for the grace of God...

Dimmock was at the door and stopped him from going any further.

"I'm sorry, Master Watson, women's business. Your friar is in there with prayers enough. I've sent for Father Anderson too."

"Is - could the midwife take the babe?"

"Don't know yet," said Dimmock. "Nasty business. The wolf, your sister said. It's not even the full moon -" he looked about, clearly nervous.

"Martinmas," said an older villager knowledgeably. "It's because of all the blood, calls to the wolf."

"Blood, all right," agreed another man. "But it weren't the Beast. Was a plain old wolf; the girl's hysterical."

"Here, that's my sister!" interjected John.

"Beggin' yer pardon," muttered the man. "But 'tis a crime those women were let live out there on their own. Don't know what their kin were thinking." He levelled a stern look at John.

"How could it be a werewolf, at any rate?" said another before John could respond. "It's not full moon for three days."

"How would you know what a werewolf can do?" interrupted another man.

The discussion was about to get heated when a shrill voice broke through the raised voices, insisting, "Make way! Let me through!" John looked up as Mother Colmer, Clara's mother-in-law, pushed her way through the crowd to the door.

"Goodwife," began Dimmock.

"That's my grandchild in there; let me by, Peter Dimmock, or I'll tan your hide."

"Yes ma'am." Dimmock stepped aside.

Sherlock appeared at the door as Mother Colmer swept in. He stepped out past her and grabbed John's shoulder, steering him through the crowd, away from the building.

"The babe did not survive," he said in a low voice as soon as they were out of earshot. "Clara's throat was cut, not torn. It was our murderer, John."

John pulled away, staring at him in disbelief and confusion. "No, it's not, I mean, it is, but it was the Beast, Harriet saw him, it, change. She saw it."

"Hysterics. Her mind has played a trick on her, mere suggestion and emotion."

John shook his head. "No. Nope. She was very certain. She knows what she saw."

Sherlock stared back at him for a long moment. "John. It is possible that Harriet believes what she saw, but think - she is expecting a wolf, she sees a man - how can it be a man, hurting her beloved friend - she sees a wolf too, lured by our murderer as a scapegoat once again; what does she do? Combine the two in her mind."

John bit his lip. It made sense. "Supposing you're right. Who would do this? Clara was a good woman. She was with child!"

"I know. It is a dark business indeed. Come, we must go to the woodcutter's cottage before any evidence is destroyed."

"I have to see Harriet first, let her know about the baby."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well, but be quick about it."

When John reached the bakery, however, Harriet was finally asleep, so he left the sad news with Mistress Hudson and did not disturb his sister's rest.

"Ready, John?" Sherlock asked as John stepped out of the door, his axe in hand.

"So. You want us to go out into the night, where there's a man-eating beast and probably a vicious murderer?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Problem?"

"Not at all," said John, hefting his axe, veins thrumming with a need for vengeance. His blood was up and he felt vicious. He gave Sherlock a fierce, tight grin and Sherlock's answering smirk was equally unpleasant.

Sherlock grabbed a torch from a sconce as he and John slipped out through the village gate. They walked in silence, John listening intently for any hint of unwanted company.

The door to the woodcutter's cottage was open and oddly the mastiff, Prince, did not bark at their approach. They checked inside the cottage but it was empty. John shut the door and then he talked Sherlock through Harriet's explanation of events. They followed her steps to the barn and John heard whining and scratching. He opened the barn, axe raised cautiously, and Prince bounded out, whining and nuzzling at his hand. John felt unreasonably pleased to see him; he rubbed his ears and coat with rough affection and earnt a lick on the face as a reward. Prince bounded off and they followed him around to the front of the house. The mastiff was growling and sniffing at the ground, hackles raised. John wrinkled his nose at the distinctive smell of blood. Sherlock held up the torch and they searched the ground.

"Stop!" John cried, spying dark patches on the grass as the torchlight briefly passed over it. Sherlock came closer and they examined the grass.

"That's a lot of blood - too much, wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock said.

John swallowed, considering it. "Her jugular vein was cut...but-" he whirled around, looking at the grass. The blood was everywhere, the ground soaked with dark stickiness.

"Pig's blood," said Sherlock. "Easily procured today of all days. Probably how the wolf was lured here this night."

John nodded.

Sherlock searched the ground more closely. "Look - footprints, in the blood, leading from the house. Harriet's I'd wager, small enough. And another set - Clara, and here...larger ones, belonging to our villain. Yes. The blood was put here before Clara was attacked."

Sherlock followed Harriet's footprints. "Here - this is where Clara was attacked. You see, Harriet's footprints stop, and the pattern of blood is different, more a spray than a patch."

John felt queasy and he held his axe more tightly.

"There you can make out two more sets under the fresher blood, more disturbed, a scuffle." Sherlock crouched on the ground, holding the torch close. He took a few steps forward and then to the right and back again. Prince was still sniffing at the ground in circles and alternately barking and whining, confused by the conflicting scents of pig and human blood, wolf, and human - strange and familiar both. He obviously came to some conclusion because he flopped down and had a good roll in the gore-covered grass. John looked away in distaste.

"Footprints, man and wolf," Sherlock said, getting to his feet and brushing off his knees. He whirled around, still studying the ground, and walked forwards a few paces. "Yes...here..." he continued to the fence and climbed through. "Come, John, Clara's attacker was bleeding when he left. We can follow the trail -"

"Wait -" said John and he took Prince back to the house and locked him inside with a pig's ear and some water. He heard the mastiff scratch at the door briefly but then there was a whine and the thump of his large body settling down against the door to wait.

He caught up with Sherlock and they slowly followed the trail of footsteps and occasional drops of blood back through the woods, then out into the fields on the southern edge of the village. They went to the southern gates only to find them locked fast.

"Locked behind him," said Sherlock. They started back around the village wall to the main entrance. Somewhere out in the woods to their right a wolf howled. John clutched his axe tighter, fury more than fear surging through his body at the sound. He _wished_ the beast would try to attack them. Devil take it.

"Keep your temper, John," murmured Sherlock. "It will do Clara no good, nor Harriet either, if you get yourself mauled to death."

"I'd like to see the wicked thing try."

Sherlock said nothing and they walked in silence.

"WHY?" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly.

John frowned at him.

"It makes no sense - I was sure it was Knight's cousin, Frankland. I wanted to tell you earlier, John. I was able to check a sample of his handwriting and it matched the note Louise received."

John felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. If he'd stayed in instead of going to the bonfire, listened to Sherlock, maybe they'd have been able to stop the murderer before he killed Clara. "Oh God," he breathed. "So...it's Frankland."

Sherlock barely acknowledged him, continuing his frustrated rant. "But then I talked to Mortimer and he told me Frankland had called in the mortgage on his house, which was why he had not been able to come up with the dowry." Sherlock growled in frustration. "There's no motive. And now Clara. His own cousin. _Why?_"

John sagged in relief. "Then it's not Frankland. Stapleton?" he suggested.

"Again, why Clara?" Sherlock demanded.

"Maybe it's not our murderer; maybe it's completely unrelated. Maybe it's just a wolf like people say, and Harriet was confused."

"I saw the wound with my own eyes. She had bite marks on her wrists, hands, face, but not her throat. Her throat had been cut. Harriet must have seen the wolf off before it could do its work."

They slipped back inside the main gates and made their way back through the village to the southern end again. The village was quiet now save for some voices here and there, a few villagers obviously still awake after the night's happenings, sharing their outrage and shock. The village green was deserted.

Any footprints or bloodstains Sherlock had been hoping to find on the village side of the southern gates, however, were completely non-existent. It was obvious someone had gone to the trouble of removing them, as the mud and dirt at the gate was churned for several feet in all directions.

They returned to the bakery. John felt drained and deflated, his anger dissipated, and he was at a loss.

"John," said Sherlock suddenly as they stood outside the front door. "How would you feel about being bait for a trap?"


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Thank you once again to my fantabulous beta readers: Tsylvestris, Mojoflower, Aranel_parmadil, Mid0Nz. You guys are amazing. All mistakes of course are my own. Thanks also to everyone who has favourited, left kudos, and commented, feedcrack is my drug of choice and it motivates me. I owe a debt of gratitude for this chapter in particular to Ariane DeVere (arianedevere dot livejournal dot com slash 36505 dot html ) for her wonderful Sherlock transcripts, which I've shamelessly pilfered and reinterpreted here.

Warnings for this chapter: Animal death, horror, blood (lots of blood), internalised homophobia

* * *

Chapter 8: _What is to be Thought of Wolves which sometimes Seize and Eat Men and Children out of their Cradles: whether this also is a Glamour caused by Witches. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 1 Question X)_

Harriet was sleeping in John and Sherlock's bed when they went back inside, so John took his bedroll downstairs and had a few hours sleep while Sherlock perched in Mistress Hudson's chair by the fire.

He was awakened by Harriet's sharp cry, and dashed upstairs to comfort her. Mistress Hudson fetched her something to drink while John held her hand and told her the sad news about Clara's babe. She wanted to know if the baby had been a boy or girl and if it had been baptised and John had to admit he hadn't thought to ask. Much of the unhappy morning was spent holding Harriet, who wept or stared glassy-eyed at nothing. Mistress Hudson insisted on having John's outerwear to wash when she saw it, covered with rusty smears of blood as it was. He hadn't even noticed. Mistress Hudson took over sitting with Harriet once John's clothes were dry and he went downstairs, heavy of heart.

Sherlock was not there and John felt irrationally put out by this fact. He thumped about fixing himself some food and had just sat down to eat when Sherlock returned, looking unseasonably pleased with himself.

John raised his eyebrows, stony-faced.

"The trap has been set. I have let it be known that we believe we have discovered the murderer and that we will be staying in the woodcutter's cottage while Harriet recovers here at Mistress Hudson's."

"Good. Right," said John.

Sherlock face fell. "You're not pleased?"

"I've just spent the past few hours sitting by my sister as she cried her heart out because the person most important to her in all the world is dead, as is the bairn they were awaiting. So no, I don't think I can be pleased. Sorry."

Sherlock looked at him, confused, his gaze moving over John's face. "Sentiment?" he hazarded.

John stared at him, realised he was serious, then nodded. "Sentiment."

"Being miserable won't give Harriet justice, John."

"No, but I'm unable to be anything else at this point in time, so. But, yes. We'll try your plan."

In sore need of air, John set off for the mill. He found the oxen already dealt with and so went to see William Murray to offer an explanation and beg a day's leave. Murray was both understanding and sympathetic, horrified by the events of the previous night.

"A hunting party is going out Friday eve," he told John. "The Beast will find us instead of a goat. You'll join us?"

"Count me in," he said, and bid Murray good day. Even if the wolf was not an unnatural beast, it was still a danger, if for no other reason than it had tasted human blood.

When he returned, Harriet was up and dressed and sitting before the fire. He went with her to call on Henry Knight to discuss the funeral arrangements, and then for an awful visit to Molly Hooper's for Harriet to see Clara and the babe. John could have wept when he saw her face afterwards. All the life had gone from her, her eyes empty and her expression frozen, as if she had no more tears left to give. She walked mutely beside him back to the bakery, lost inside her own head, the hand she'd laid on his arm trembling slightly.

Worried, John handed her over to Mistress Hudson, promising to return early the next morning. Then he and Sherlock set out for the woodcutter's cottage. Prince was pleased to see him and John fed and watered him and let him stretch his legs outside for a while as he saw to the other animals waiting in the barn.

The front yard was drenched in blood and it turned John's stomach just to walk by.

He found Sherlock in the cottage. "Can I do something about that blood?" he asked. "Wash it away a bit?"

Sherlock nodded and quirked a small smile. "I'm sure our culprit will be able to bring more should he need it."

John only nodded and took the cauldron to the stream in the hand cart to fill to the brim. He doused the worst of the blood stains again and again, and after the third trip the yard no longer stank like a charnel house. Then he took a whetstone and sharpened his axe until it had the same fine edge as when Nicholas Mortimer had first given it to him.

He walked around the fences of the woodcutter's cottage, through the fallen leaves of trees that bounded the clearing. What had been a peaceful location, with the rich, warm colours of autumn, dappled light falling through the gradually denuding branches, now seemed eerie and sinister. John startled at every noise and strained his ears to hear above the sound of his own footfalls crunching through the leaves. Prince came snuffling through the trees and joined him. There was something off, though, and John's skin prickled as if he was being watched. Every now and then, Prince would stand stock-still then pace stiff-legged towards the woods, hackles raised, a low growl in his throat. It made the hair on the back of John's neck rise as well. Finally he turned back to the cottage. He did the chores for the evening, feeding and securing the animals in the barn, and then went into the cottage with the mastiff.

Sherlock had started a fire in the fireplace and was warming his hands. John pulled the latch string through on the door and leant his axe against the wall before moving to close the shutters on the windows. Prince made a gruff sound and settled beside the door.

"There, safe and sound," John said, turning to Sherlock.

"We are in no danger, John. There are two of us and we have the advantage of knowing exactly what is going on. It will be our murderer, if he makes an appearance, who will find the situation unexpected and unpleasant."

"If you say so," he said. "Hungry?"

"I won't say no to supper if you're fixing it."

John raided the pantry cupboard, feeling maudlin for a moment when he remembered that it was not Clara's kitchen any longer. He set out bread and leftover meat from the feast the previous evening. There was the jar of perry that Harriet had mentioned on the shelf as well, so he poured them each a mug.

Sherlock joined him at the table and they ate in silence, John clearing away their bowls and then pouring them each another mug of perry.

Feeling a little more at peace, he brought a chair over to sit by the fire. Sherlock did likewise and they both sat staring into the flames.

"You're still unhappy," Sherlock noted after a while.

John looked up. "A little, yes." He managed a rueful smile. "Not good company. Sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't pretend with you, John, you needn't pretend with me."

John glanced at him, wondering for horrible moment if he meant John's deviant feelings, but he merely seemed to be referring to mood and temperament. He drank his mug of pear cider slowly, ruminating on the Beast and Harriet and what his sister would do now. He should move in here with Harry, he supposed, unless she preferred to return to Mistress Colmer's - there would surely be bad memories for her in this place now, and the good associations would cause her grief.

The perry was strong and John began to feel slightly tipsy, a soft haze over his thoughts. He tilted his head to the side and studied Sherlock as the man stared into the fire. Red and yellow lights flickered on his sharp features, and he seemed relaxed and comfortable, oddly at peace. John studied the way the shadow fell just below his cheekbone, the smooth curve as it joined his jaw. Dimly he registered the noise of geese honking from the barn but Prince sat silent and content by the door so he paid the noise no mind.

He drained his mug and stood to clear his head a little. He walked to the fireplace and set the empty mug on the stone mantel. He took the poker and stoked the fire a little then set it back on its stand. He turned back towards Sherlock and a spark ran through him as he saw Sherlock watching him with hooded eyes. John didn't look away and neither did Sherlock.

Oddly giddy, he put one hand on the stone mantelpiece to steady himself. He swallowed, his mouth dry. Sherlock carefully set down his mug and unfolded from his chair, closing the distance between them until he joined John before the fire. John tilted his chin up, gaze still fixed on Sherlock's, so close now. Too close. Sherlock's irises were so blue, _green_ and blue, with a mark on the right eye, just above the wide-blown pupil. So wide and dark that John thought he could see Sherlock's soul, perhaps, if he just stared hard enough -

The fire was hot. He broke contact as he took a step back from the fireplace. Sherlock copied his action and John was caught by the vee of skin showing below his neck at the opening of his cowl. He looked up and followed Sherlock's gaze, saw it fixed now on his left hand. He flexed it and let his own gaze fall to Sherlock's fingers, raised slightly at his side. Long, slim fingers, his hands soft and elegant. Not used for manual labour, clean and unmarked, the nails pink and neat. John wondered what those hands felt like. Would they be as soft and smooth as a woman's? Softer, even, as most of the women John had known had all had strong, hard, peasant hands, rubbed and worn tough as leather. No, not like that, after all, but soft like the whore in the bazaar who'd been clean and plump, the one who'd smelt of perfume and spices and spent her days in silks and satins. John had spent a month's pay on her, on his last night before he marched out to certainly die. He hadn't died but he hadn't lain with anyone since.

The touch on his wrist startled him from his reverie and he realised Sherlock's long fingers were now resting gently against the back of his hand. Lightly, slowly, Sherlock ran his fingertips over the hair on the back of John's wrist. John lifted his gaze to Sherlock's face as at the same moment Sherlock's unearthly eyes lifted to his. He licked his dry lips. His whole body was humming, his heart thumping very loudly and his skin tingling all over. Sherlock raised his hand and touched his fingertips to the side of John's face. He blinked at John owlishly and then sharply inhaled. His lips parted, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his full bottom lip. John swallowed and felt Sherlock's fingers stroke down to his jaw and then cup the whole of his cheek with his open palm. Sherlock's eyes flickered to his lips then back up and John breathed once - only once - before Sherlock closed the gap between them, pressing their mouths together.

Something rather akin to a war cannon exploded inside John's heart. His arms, his gut, his legs were tingling, the room was shimmering and Sherlock's lips were very soft and very real and pressed very firmly against his and they felt _extraordinary._ He gripped the back of Sherlock's neck, clutched at his robe and clung to him, holding him there because he could not, would not end this. Their mouths slid against each other, John's tongue tasted that tempting bottom lip, glancing against Sherlock's tongue in return, mouthing at his lip, tasting the perry on his breath. Sherlock's stubbled chin rasped against his own, reminding him of a sunlit morning, a razor, and a warm huff of breath. It made him bolder, and he slid his hand down the rough wool to Sherlock's hip and pulled him closer, canting his own hips as he did so. Sherlock groaned against his mouth and pressed into him in response.

A ringing, sudden knock shattered the moment. Prince growled and started barking loudly.

Sherlock stumbled back, eyes wide, shocked and dismayed. John's head felt thick. The room was spinning around him.

"John- Forgive me-" gasped Sherlock.

John opened his mouth to reply, but then Prince's barking grew more frantic and he turned quickly.

"Wait here," he told Sherlock. He snatched up his axe and lifted the heavy latch.

Prince dashed out past him into the night, barking frantically. John stared out into the dark, seeing nothing. His heart hammered and the night seemed to pulse with each dull thud of his blood. There was a shape. He peered at it, trying to make sense of it. He could hear Prince still barking, growling. He took a step out the door and the sharp tang of blood assailed his nose. He felt wetness against his fingertips where they rested on the door frame. He brought them to his face and saw a red smear. There was blood at his feet. He stumbled back and whirled: blood over the walls of the cottage, the door. The wind blew and trees groaned in it. Prince's frenzied barking continued. There was a sudden, startled yelp, and the dog fell silent. John's pulse raced and then out in the darkness something moved. A figure. Tall. John squinted, trying, trying to see in the shaking light. A man...

He started walking slowly forward, axe at the ready. The figure wavered and coalesced. The night closed in on him, the blood still throbbing in his skull, crushing him with cold fingers. Another gust of wind, whipping at John's clothes, thudding in his ears. He couldn't hear- And then the wind stopped and he strained to listen above the sound of his own breath. The figure turned-

And then John heard it, a sound that chilled him to the marrow: a long, low growl. Ice water trickled down his spine and he felt panic overtake him. His hand clenched tightly about the axe. The figure bent and rose - And everything was shaking, his body was shaking, the night was shaking-

And suddenly it was moving, moving towards him. Slowly at first. Another growl. John took two steps back and then saw the glint of eyes and something sprang out of the darkness. He fell to the ground as the thing passed over him, slashed with his axe and scrambled to his feet. The creature turned and bared its teeth in a snarl but all John could hear was the pounding of his heart. And then it sprang again and John held the handle of the axe in both hands and thrust it out defensively in front of him just as the wolf's jaws closed about it. Its momentum pulled John over backwards along with the axe handle. He twisted as he let go of the axe and he watched it fall to the ground, clenched in the wolf's jaws. His nerve broke and he ran, stumbling, tripping - too slow. Sherlock was standing a few feet outside the door of the cottage and John hauled him along, shoving him ahead, bundling him inside and turning to close the door-

Teeth.

Teeth and eyes and fur and _size_ -

John slammed the door shut and pulled down the latch just as something fell against it with an impact that shook the cottage. He sank down, gasping for breath, back pressed against the door, and Sherlock dropped down next to him. He could hear snuffling breath, another snarl. He wrapped his arms around his knees and shut his eyes and grit his teeth to keep from screaming.

He could hear Sherlock praying the rosary, his deep voice shaking.

Outside there was the scrap of nails, heavy footfalls, and then, right next to the door, a long, blood-curdling howl that made John heave in his breath and bite his lip. A shaking hand gripped his arm but he couldn't open his eyes even to look at Sherlock. He thought his heart was going to pound from his chest and his lungs ached. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth but he couldn't stop shaking. Another howl, and another thud. He could hear it breathing, _hear it._

And then it was moving, prowling around the cottage. The shutters on one of the windows rattled and John clenched his fists tighter and fought to breathe. There was another howl, further away now. He could hear the geese still carrying on, Harriet's cow bellowing in terror from the barn. And he couldn't do anything, couldn't do anything-

"The Beast," he gasped. "We saw it. We _saw_ it."

"No, I didn't see anything," said Sherlock in an empty voice.

"What? What are you talking about, it was right there -"

"I didn't. See. Anything."

They stayed like that for a long time until finally John was able to open his eyes. The room loomed over him. The fire rose in the fireplace, rising higher - above him, over him, crackling like the fires of Hell. He'd tried to seduce a man of God and now the Devil was going to claim him-

He gulped in breaths and leaned his head back against the door, the walls of the cottage closing in, closer, closer -

He rolled his head to the side. Sherlock's arms were wrapped around the tops of his knees, rosary clutched in his fisted hands, pressed against his mouth. His face was bloodless and he was staring straight ahead, rocking slightly, his whole body vibrating with tension.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock made a small, quiet, scared sound. Then he lifted his face. "I saw it too."

John pressed back against the door.

"A man became a wolf. A gigantic wolf- It's not possible." Sherlock's voice was shaking, his eyes glassy and staring.

John unclenched his fists. Somehow Sherlock's agreement made it worse. "Maybe it was our minds playing tricks, like you said-" he said, clutching at straws.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the door and blew out a breath. John was shocked to see he was blinking back tears.

"Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid." He held up his shaking hand staring at it.

John swallowed. He could not handle this. Could not handle Sherlock being afraid as well. Sherlock was supposed to tell him it was nothing. "Sherlock-"

"I've always been able to keep myself distant...divorce myself from...feelings. But look, you see..." He clenched his trembling hand and opened it, glaring at it. "My body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

John reached for him, bewildered by his words. "All's well, all's well - everyone gets frightened. You're no different. I was bloody terrified; I'm still shaken."

Sherlock shook his head, lips pressed tightly. His hands gripped his knees and then wrapped around his upper body. He leaned his head back again and blew out a few more breaths, trying and obviously failing to bring himself under control.

"It's all right. We're safe now. It's gone." John's mouth was dry. Somehow, having to soothe Sherlock was helping calm him. "So it was a werewolf after all. The Beast is real. So we were wrong-"

Sherlock shook his head. "HOW? How can it be real? It makes no sense. Yet I saw it - it makes no sense!"

"It's bewitched us, that's what must have happened."

"Bewitched?"

"The Beast- the Devil's work..."

Sherlock shook his head and laughed sarcastically. "Bewitched? I'm not bewitched." He put his head in his hands and made another anguished noise.

John licked his lips. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, pacing.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock whirled on him. "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

John scrambled to his own feet, watching the other man with a mix of wariness and a mounting anger born of fear and unreleased tension. "I'm feeling odd too, Sherlock. We don't know-"

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "You want me to prove it? I'm fine. _Anima Christi, sanctifica me. Corpus Christi, salva me. Sanguis Christi, inebria me. Aqua lateris Christi, lava me. Passio Christi, conforta me. O bone Iesu, exaudi me. Intra tua vulnera absconde me. Ne permittas me separari a te. Ab hoste maligno defende me. In hora mortis meae voca me. Et iube me venire ad te, Ut cum Sanctis tuis laudem te in saecula saeculorum. Amen. _See? How can I be bewitched if I can pray to Christ for protection from evil? Don't believe me? _Anima Christi_, the soul of Christ, perhaps composed by Pope John XXII although this is uncertain. _Corpus, Sanguis, Aqua, Passio:_ body, blood, water, passion of Christ, all related to the Eucharist. _Ab hoste maligno defende me - _From the malignant enemy defend me. In fact, I've never been more in my senses, so just. Leave. Me. Alone." He glared at John.

John licked his lip. "All right. Fine." He took a step back, confused and hurt and angry. "And why would you listen to me? I'm just your -" He paused, remembering the kiss. "Friend."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock bit out viciously.

John felt as if he'd been punched. He shook his head, inhaling sharply. "No. I wonder why?"

He and Sherlock glared at each other for a long moment and then Sherlock turned on his heel and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. John leaned back against the door again and slowly slid back down onto the floor, his body too shaken to stand any longer.

It was dawn when he woke with a start, hunched over on the floor. His stiff muscles protested as he got to his feet. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry, so he made his way to the pantry and helped himself to a mug of beer. Feeling a bit less parched, he found a loaf of bread to break his fast. He sat at the table and thought through what he needed to do as he chewed the stale lump of bread.

He took a sack hanging behind the door and grabbed anything from the living area that he thought Harriet might need, and then opened the door to the bedroom. Sherlock was still asleep, curled up on the bed, but quite frankly John didn't care if he disturbed him or not. He opened the chest at the foot of the bed and collected clothes and personal items for Harriet.

Sherlock grunted and sat up, blinking. John ignored him and stalked from the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Then, steeling himself and wishing for his axe, he drew his dagger and carefully opened the door of the cottage. The stench of dried blood hit his nose immediately and he covered his mouth as he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. The whole front of the cottage was doused in blood, the ground soaked in it. There were gouges, claw marks, and bloody prints on the door itself. John crossed himself. He hadn't been imagining any of this.

John could hear the animals stirring in the barn and he cautiously made his way around the cottage. He found Prince by the barn door, throat torn out and disemboweled. There were deep scratches in the barn door but it had held fast. He opened it and checked on the animals, fetching more water and filling their mangers and feed troughs. The geese told him off in no uncertain terms for the trouble of the previous evening.

He took a load of wood from the pile and made a bier for Prince's limp, bloodied body. Large, soulful eyes were now lifeless and John gave Prince one last scratch behind the ears. The pyre took too long to catch but eventually it did and John left it to burn the remains of Harry and Clara's loyal dog.

Suddenly he remembered his father's toolbox and returned to the cottage to retrieve it. It wasn't in the main room so he barged into the bedroom again. Sherlock was lying on his back, apparently deep in prayer. John opened the large chest at the end of the bed noisily, rummaging through the remaining clothes and linen.

"John - about last night."

He didn't look up. "It's fine."

Sherlock sat up. "What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before ..."

John felt his face flush despite himself, remembering the kiss. "We were drunk. Let's just forget about it, all right?" He made the mistake of glancing up. Sherlock's brow was furrowed in confusion.

"What...? OH! No, no, not _that_." A light blush bloomed across Sherlock's cheekbones and he faltered for a moment. "No, I meant my reaction to...what we saw-"

_Oh_. Right. That. John tossed a flannel blanket aside. "Yes, you said: fear. Brother Sherlock got scared. You said."

"No, no, no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

"It. Was. A. Wolf," said John enunciating the words very slowly and very carefully. "A. Werewolf. We. Both. Saw. It." He finished digging through the chest and slammed the lid shut.

"No, I can't believe that. But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?" Sherlock scrambled off the bed and crossed the floor towards him. "John, I know what we thought we saw last night, but why did it make us both react so? You're a hardened war veteran; we both ran from a wolf the first night we met and neither of us were perturbed. Why should we have been afraid this time?"

John scanned the room for another hiding place for his father's toolbox. "Anyone in their right mind would've been afraid if they'd seen what we saw." He crouched down on his hands and knees and peered under the bed.

"John-" Sherlock began, then paused, a frown in his voice. "What are you looking for?"

John spotted the box and stretched his arm under the bed to retrieve it. "My father's tool chest; it's the only part of our inheritance Harriet could keep," he said with a grunt as he hauled the wooden box towards him.

"John, when I said I don't have friends-"

"You were very clear. Let's not go over it," said John, pulling the chest all the way out and getting to his knees.

"I meant it. I don't have _friends_."

His ears heated and his stomach dropped, just a little bit; such an idiot for expecting some sort of apology. He clambered to his feet but Sherlock grabbed his arm, searching his face.

"I only have one."

He stared at Sherlock for a moment, then looked away and tugged his arm from his grasp. "Right." He started past him. Sherlock reached to stop him then suddenly froze, his eyes flickering in realisation.

"John? John!"

John didn't stop. Sherlock dashed in front of him. "You are amazing! You are fantastic!"

John stopped to put his father's tool chest inside the sack and hoist it over his shoulder. "Yes, all right! You don't have to overdo it."

Sherlock overtook him and stepped in front of the door, blocking his exit.

"You're not the most luminous of people, but as a _conductour _of light you are without compare."

John blinked. "Sorry...what?"

"Some people who haven't genius have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others," he clarified.

John rolled his eyes. "You were apologising a moment ago. Don't spoil it. Go on, what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?"

"Inheritance, John! It's so obvious, I don't know why I didn't think of it - Frankland's motive!"

"Frankland's a werewolf?"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock sneered . "I've told you before - he used a knife, the wolf is just a distraction -"

John stared at him. "You can't seriously still believe this was the work of a mortal man? It's devilry, Sherlock, plain and simple. I know what I saw and you do too, you just won't admit it."

Sherlock exhaled in frustration. "I don't know what I saw. I saw shadows and light and I did not feel myself. There were shapes and there was a wolf -"

"There was a bloody man and he turned into a fucking wolf!" snapped John, the tension and emotion of the night getting the better of him. "I don't want to hear any more about your bloody mystery." He took a breath. "If we hadn't been so set on finding a murderer, maybe we'd have done what Mortimer wanted in the first place and hunted the thing, and then maybe Clara wouldn't be dead."

"Clara would still be dead because Clara was killed by a man, a man living in this village!" He stepped forward, expression entreating.

John shook his head. "No. No more. Sod this, Sherlock. You believe what you like, but I'm going to Clara's funeral and then I'm getting any man who'll join me and I'm going to hunt down the wolf that killed her. Understand?" He pushed Sherlock aside and stormed out of the cottage. He retrieved his axe from where the wolf had snatched it without breaking his stride.

* * *

The funeral was painful. John stood, supporting Harriet as she stared unseeingly at Clara's corpse, the smaller body of the baby boy swaddled and laid in her arms. He had been barely alive when taken from Clara's body, but Sherlock had apparently performed an emergency baptism so he could receive a Christian burial along with his mother.

Afterwards, Mother Colmer and Mistress Hudson took Harriet off and John sought out Nicholas Mortimer. The man had stood at the back of the church during the ceremony, as if a thundercloud were upon his head.

John didn't bother with preamble. "I am leaving to hunt the wolf. Will you come with me?"

Mortimer lifted dark eyes tinged with anger and sorrow and studied him. "I will," he said finally. "Give me until None and I will have a dozen men."

John returned to the bakery and readied for the hunt with a possible night in the woods. There was no sign of Sherlock, and John supposed he was still at the woodcutter's cottage. They would start the hunt from there, so he would check on the man when they went past.

When he returned to the village green at the appointed hour, he found Nicholas Mortimer waiting with a half-dozen men, all armed to the teeth. Henry Knight was among them, as well as William Murray, Arthur Stapleton and Robert Frankland.

Magistrate Lestrade was there as well. "Someone has to keep an eye on you lot," he muttered when his presence was commented upon.

Mortimer led the party and agreed with John that they should start at the woodcutter's cottage. John went inside to check for Sherlock when they reached the cottage, still bloodstained from the night before, but the friar was no longer there. John pressed back the concern that rose - he was sure to be running around on his fool's errand, trying to find a mortal culprit for the crime. Still, John couldn't help casting a surreptitious glance at Robert Frankland, but the man was chatting jovially to Murray, perfectly at his ease - not the actions of a man guilty of heinous crimes.

From the cottage, the men tracked the wolf deep into the woods and up towards the slopes of the mountains where the ground grew rocky. After a short debate they lit torches to guide their way as the sun set, most unwilling to abandon the chase despite Lestrade's call for sense, reminding them the wolf would appear of its own accord the following night for the sacrifice. Mortimer and John in particular were unwilling to give the beast even one more night to roam free.

They eventually found its lair: a cave hidden among brushes, surrounded by the bleached white bones of animals. Someone threw a torch into the cave and in the flare of light they saw the creature. It growled warningly at them, trapped against the wall of the cave and the men crept forward, weapons at the ready.

Then with a snarl, the beast sprang, teeth bared and for a moment John felt the rising panic of the night before, but then the fear was replaced by murderous rage. The creature snapped and snarled, there was shouting and the song and glint of blades and the beast fell with a whimper. The men encircled it, torches raised. It was big, big for a wolf, but seemed smaller, more pitiful than John remembered. And it was very dead.

They cut off its shaggy head and stuck it on George Turner's sword, as he was the one who had made the killing blow.

Cheerful and elated, the hunting party began the slow progress back to the village, taking a more direct route this time. John joined them in their jubilation but his response was somewhat tempered. With a wolf dead and his need for vengeance sated, elements from the night at the cottage along with a creeping doubt began to nag at him.

The village was in uproar as they entered; one of the younger lads had run ahead with the news and the hunting party was surrounded and applauded. The wolf's head was paraded through the village and then stuck on a pole in the middle of the village green. Angelo brought out a barrel of ale to celebrate and someone organised a bonfire, and so in a short time a party was in full swing.

Sarah grabbed John's arm and pulled him into a congratulatory kiss before tugging him with her to dance about the fire. He took a few steps then pulled back; it didn't seem right, with Clara only mourned and buried that morning and the memory of Sherlock's embrace confusing him. He gently told her no and walked out of the circle of firelight. He needed to see Harriet anyway and tell her the good news.

Suddenly someone grabbed his arm urgently and he looked up to see the sharp features of the friar gleaming in the firelight. "John- you're back! John, I've solved it -"

The surge of relief at seeing Sherlock quickly vanished. John gave a harsh bark of laughter. "You're jesting, surely? _We've_ 'solved it' - or didn't you notice the great wolf's head stuck on the pike?"

Sherlock waved it away. "One fewer predator in the woods, a man-eater and deservedly culled. John, listen to me- I've worked it out-"

John shrugged him off. "I have to see Harriet," he said and kept walking.

"John?" Sherlock matched his stride. "John, don't be so thick-headed. _Think_. Clara's babe would have been Henry Knight's heir if he didn't produce a child of his own. He got Louise Mortimer with child but then she was killed. I talked with Knight's man. Do you know who Henry Knight's heir is now, since his sister and betrothed are both dead along with their offspring?"

John froze and stared at Sherlock as the truth hit him. "His cousin. Robert Frankland."

Sherlock beamed. "Precisely! Robert Frankland, who called in the mortgage on Louise Mortimer's father's house, delaying the match. Frankland, whose handwriting matches the false note Louise Mortimer received on the night she died. Frankland, who has power enough over Louise's friend, Beryl, to force her to give her best friend a letter that would lure her from safety on the night of a full moon. Frankland, who has easy access to the south gate of the village. Don't you see? It all points to Frankland!"

John swallowed. "And you and I? What about what we saw?"

Sherlock stepped forward and grabbed John's shoulders, searching his eyes. "John - did you not feel odd last night? As if you were drunk? The ki- we were not ourselves. Perry should not be that strong. Think, John. I have in the past had occasion to test the efficacy of certain herbs purported to be used for medicinal purposes. A number of these had quite potent effects and I was rendered dazed and confused and suffered hallucinations. I felt _very much_ like I did last night."

John stared back at him. "A potion?"

"I'm certain of it. Administered through some food or drink in Harry and Clara's home. You told me that Harry said she partook of the perry just before retiring to bed that night? _Perry_, John. How could a few glasses of pear cider have made us so drunken that we forgot ourselves and...gave into base emotion-"

John flushed and avoided Sherlock's gaze. A potion? He had felt odd...but it hadn't made him do anything he hadn't secretly wanted to do...his eyes snapped back to Sherlock's. That meant..._Sherlock had wanted to kiss him too._ He swallowed, his gaze flickering to those sensuous lips, the memory of their touch very clear.

Sherlock, however, seemed to think he still had to prove his point and continued his argument. "Harriet said she saw the wolf change but cannot explain how; she was confused. Again, it points to the perry being laced with a potion. The werewolf theory is flawed. Why douse the cottage in blood to lure a wolf if the wolf is a man to begin with? This is the only thing that makes sense!"

Something had been niggling at the back of John's mind and at the mention of Harriet, suddenly he remembered. "Beryl's perry - Beryl Stapleton gave Harriet the perry!"

Sherlock beamed in triumph. "You see! Beryl Stapleton gave Harriet the perry. Beryl Stapleton gave Louise Mortimer the note that lured her out onto the common - Frankland knows about Beryl's secret child, employs her brother, has leverage over her-"

"Hold on, so if it's a potion then...it's witchcraft?" He looked up at Sherlock in shock. "Beryl Stapleton is a witch?"

Sherlock shushed him hissingly. "No more than it is the work of a _werewolf_. Natural plants may have effects that appear mystical to the uninformed - you've heard of St. Anthony's Fire, caused by the ergot that occurs naturally on rye?" Sherlock looked around and lowered his voice. "I would not start throwing the word 'witch' around lightly, John. It can have unfortunate consequences, especially if connected to the name of a simple girl in difficult circumstances." He let go of John's arm. "Besides which she has no motive - jealousy? Spite? Louise was her only friend. Was she in love with Henry Knight? Was Henry Knight the father of her child? Perhaps that would be reason enough to hate Louise, but why Clara? Clara is nothing to Beryl. To Frankland, however, her babe was a threat."

John shook his head, once again amazed by the friar's reasoning, his deductions. "All right," he acknowledged. "That is pretty bloody impressive. What now?"

"Now we tell the magistrate. If he acts swiftly he may find more evidence - blood on Frankland's clothes-"

A sudden thudding of hooves interrupted his words. A carriage flanked by soldiers mounted on horseback thundered into the village through the now-open gates. They clattered into the area lit by the bonfire, close by Sherlock and John, and drew to a halt along with the carriage. The carriage driver stepped down to open the door. John and Sherlock, along with the rest of the village, waited, staring at the carriage. And then its occupant appeared: a man dressed in the black robe of the Dominican order, his tonsured hair swept back in a widow's peak. He looked around the assembled crowd and stepped down.

Magistrate Lestrade seemed to recover his wits and ran forward to greet him. One of the mounted soldiers swung out of his saddle and stepped between them.

"Magistrate Lestrade," Lestrade said introducing himself. "And who might you be?"

The soldier glanced towards the distinguished visitor. "This is Brother James Moriarty of the Inquisition," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note:** Thanks so much to Tsylvestris, Aranel Parmadil and Mid0Nz for all your help and beta awesomeness. Thanks also to everyone who left feedback, favourites and kudos, you make this worth my while :) I'll be making a couple of judicious edits shortly to fix a historical boo boo in Chapter 3 that Rhyolight04 was kind enough to point out (the Fatima prayer was not around in the 15th century, *facepalm*), plus more beer :P Thank you!

AND last but not least, please check out the gorgeous art that Khorazir has created from this little ficcy [url massacred to bypass ffnet]: khorazir dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 50569684586 slash the-shaving-scene-from-mildredandbobbins Absolutely gorgeous! Thankyou!

All right, onto this chapter. I won't lie, it was upsetting to write, I hope that translates as dramatic tension?

**Warnings:** allusions to a previous rape, references to (minor) sexual assault, references to previous suicidal ideation, references to torture, medieval attitudes towards women

**tw:** rape; sexual assault, suicide, torture

* * *

**Chapter 9:** _And when the Incubus devil had seen her, and has asked her whether she recognized him, and she had said that she did not, he had answered "I am the devil; and if you wish, I will always be ready at your pleasure, and will not fail you in any necessity." (Malleus Maleficarum Part 2 Question I)_

Brother James Moriarty, the Inquisitor, looked around at the assembled villagers before fixing his gaze on Lestrade.

"Good evening, Magistrate," he said in a lilting Irish accent. "I understand you've been troubled by some devilry."

"There have been some unfortunate attacks by a werewolf, Brother," said Lestrade. He seemed tense, and Sherlock too stood stiffly, his expression frozen. Lestrade indicated the wolf's head on the pike. "However, as you can see, we have dealt with the issue."

Brother James looked at the creature's head and then began to laugh uproariously, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes after a long moment and composing himself to ask incredulously, "You expect me to believe that is your infamous Beast?" Suddenly his face contorted. "Nonsense!" he shouted, sharp and shocking. "Fools! If that had been your 'Beast' it would have become a man the moment it was slain. Well done, Magistrate, your goats will sleep easier tonight knowing that the Big Bad Wolf has been vanquished. No..." He eyed the assembled faces. "This is not the creature you fear. Your village has been bewitched. A glamour has been cast, by one of your number dabbling in the arts of the Devil. Captain Moran, secure the gates. There is a witch in this village and I intend to find her!"

The captain saluted and snapped orders to the other guards, who raced off. Brother James clapped Lestrade on the shoulder, then pulled him close, his gaze sliding over the Magistrate's profile. "Never fear, Magistrate Lestrade. I'm here now...and we'll soon have everything out in the open." He released Lestrade and spun on his heel. "Now. Where is dear Father Anderson? Lord Wilkes assured me he would provide us with the utmost hospitality."

Father Anderson scurried forward obsequiously. "Brother, it is so good of you to come! The trials this village has suffered, you have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do." The Inquisitor smiled broadly, then clapped his hands together. "Saint Bartholemew's Church, that will do nicely. Lead the way, Father Anderson. We have much to discuss."

Anderson nodded and nearly tripped over his feet attempting to show the way to the church without actually turning his back on his distinguished guest. Another Dominican friar, a short, white-haired man, alighted from the carriage and hurried after them while the remaining guards saw to the carriage and horses before they too followed after Father Anderson and Brother James. The deathly silence that had fallen over the bonfire revelry continued for as long as it took for the Inquisitor to enter the church gates, and then noise erupted, everyone talking at once.

"Come, let us see Lestrade," said Sherlock starting towards the magistrate. "It may be we can stop this before it starts."

"Why didn't you tell this Brother James that you know who the murderer is?" John demanded. Accusing voices began to rise, the villagers speculating on the identity of the witch.

Sherlock's expression was tight and he crossed himself before answering. "He's the Inquisition, John. It is not truth he is interested in, not my kind of truth, anyway." He pushed past a man and a woman talking in hushed voices. John caught snatches of conversation from his neighbours and new friends as he passed.

_"...you've seen the way she looks sometimes..."_

_"...well, remember what happened to Tom Deryngton's cow.."_

_"...that babe was alive when he were taken from his mother..."_

_"...I always thought there was something peculiar..."_

People were looking about with suspicious eyes, looking at _him_ with suspicion. John glared back. He caught Sherlock's sleeve. "But if you explained -" he insisted.

"John!" snapped Sherlock, coming to a halt. He took a breath and looked away where a fist fight had broken out between two men. "Torture, John, I wouldn't recommend it." He faced John and bit his lip before continuing. "_Think_. If we tell the Inquisitor everything we know, Beryl Stapleton would be accused as a witch, a confession would be wrung from her, and she'll burn at the stake. She is weak-willed, certainly, to have sucumbed to Frankland's threats, but she is no witch. Ask your conscience if she deserves that fate."

John's jaw tightened. "If she had anything to do with Clara's death then I find it hard to have any sympathy for her." He had not had much experience with the Inquisition, but he'd heard rumours, tales of the work of these Black Friars who scoured the land for heretics and witches, of whole villages decimated or worse. He'd thought little of it, assuming the dead must have been guilty or that the rumours were exaggerated if the numbers were unbelievable. Still, death at the stake was a cruel way to die. His need for vengeance had died along with the wolf and he couldn't find it in his heart to wish pain upon Beryl Stapleton if she was simply the pawn Sherlock believed her to be.

Sherlock continued, "And even then there is no guarantee that Frankland will suffer the justice he deserves - Lestrade!"

The magistrate turned towards them. "Brother? This is a turn up, is it not? I wonder if Anderson knows what he has let us in for."

Sherlock didn't waste any time. "I know who the murderer is. Arrest him, deal with him, and send the Inquisitor on his way."

Lestrade sighed. "The Inquisition is here," he said meaningfully. "It's out of my hands now. You know that."

"It's Frankland," Sherlock snapped. "He was set to be disinherited should Knight have a child or if Clara Colmer gave Knight a nephew. He tried to delay Louise's marriage to Knight by crippling her father with debt, but when she fell pregnant and Knight swore to marry her anyway he grew desperate. He blackmailed Beryl Stapleton into giving Louise Mortimer a note that would lure her out onto the common - it is written in his hand. He slit Louise's throat and left her body for the wolves to take, returning to the village by the southern gate. When it was apparent he'd been successful, he grew bolder. On Martinmas he attacked Clara Colmer. He had sent a jar of perry spiked with herbs that cause delusions and phantasms, intending to befuddle the wits of both the Colmer widows. He doused the cottage with blood to lure a wolf to finish the business afterwards, and he attacked Clara Colmer with a knife. When I let it be known within his hearing that I had uncovered the murderer and would be staying in the cottage, John and I were attacked in a similar fashion. I will take you through each step if you need-"

"That's...Dear God," sighed Lestrade. He rubbed at his face. "What proof do you have?"

"The forged note, Mortimer's testimony as to why he delayed the marriage, the size of Frankland's foot compared to the marks left by the killer, both at Louise's place of death and Clara's, to which I will testify. Molly Hooper can vouch for the fact that a knife was used on both victims. The perry can be tested on a dog to demonstrate its potency. Knight himself can tell you who is set to inherit- " Sherlock froze. "Where is Knight? Where is Frankland?"

Lestrade looked around. Frankland was standing by the fire, talking peaceably with a small group of men. Knight was nowhere to be seen.

"Gone home," said Lestrade. "Calm down, Brother. Robert Frankland is a good man, highly respected. What you're saying, it's hard to believe, to be honest. Look, the Inquisitor's here now, he'll do his work, God help us. If Frankland is guilty as you say he'll discover it, along with every other secret this village has to hide."

Sherlock growled in frustration. "Frankland has killed twice already, the inheritance is his, there is nothing stopping him from killing Knight now-"

"Look. I'll send Dimmock to check on Henry - not saying I believe you mind, but- just in case. That's all I can do, Brother."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over the man's face. "_Lestrade_," he breathed, disappointment falling across his expression.

Lestrade returned his gaze, steady and unhappy. "The Inquisition is here," he repeated. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must counsel my sister." He looked around then surreptitiously dug his hand into his robe, retrieving a single key, which he slipped to John. "I didn't give this to you, is that clear?"

John nodded.

"The guards won't know about the southern gate yet. The midwife, little Molly, get her out of the village that way. As soon as you can."

"Mistress Hooper?"

"God help us, Master Watson, Brother Sherlock," said Lestrade and he walked off without another word.

"John, you see the midwife to safety. I have a letter to write."

"Why Molly Hooper? She's done nothing."

"Because the midwife always dies, John," said Sherlock. "She'll be the first accused. A clever woman with knowledge of life and death? Witchcraft can be the only possible explanation when men such as our Inquisitor are involved. Besides, both the victims were with child. Again, accuse the midwife; everyone knows midwives feed babies to the Devil." He glanced at John. "Take your sister as well. She's bound to be accused. Tribadism, dead husband, the only witness to Clara's death."

John blinked, processing the unusual word. "Tribadism? Harriet and Clara?"

"You didn't know?"

"Oh. No...Oh." He supposed Sherlock may be right, but...well. Huh. They started across the common towards the centre of the village.

Something of their earlier conversation niggled at John, something that made his skin crawl when he realised what it was. "You said earlier, torture is not something you'd recommend. When were you tortured?"

Sherlock glanced at him briefly but didn't answer immediately. "When I was a student, studying in Paris. A youth, Carl Powers, was accused of heresy. He was condemned and burnt at the stake. I read the court records. I disagreed and wrote a paper explaining why the verdict was wrong. Did you know, John, that to disagree with the verdict of the Inquisition is also heresy? I was accused, arrested, and ordered to recant. I refused and was tortured." His face, which had been carefully blank, now twisted. "My father and brother intervened. My signed recantation was forged and I did penance. Carl Powers remained guilty."

Sherlock tortured. John's stomach churned at the thought. "I'm sorry. That must- are you all right?"

Sherlock waved his concern away. "I was only put in mind of it because it was the last time I saw the name Moriarty. Perhaps it is only a coincidence, but he was the witness whose testimony condemned Carl Powers." He shook his head. "It was years ago. Little permanent damage was done, except to my reputation. I was infuriated with my father, my brother. I had been prepared to die for the truth and they thwarted me. In hindsight, I can see the worth of their actions and indeed must thank them for preserving the life that, as a youth, I'd vainly tried to discard."

John looked at Sherlock, incredulous. "You were going to let yourself die horribly just to prove you were right?"

Sherlock's lips twisted into a slight smile. "Yes."

"You're an idiot," he said. Sherlock grinned and John returned it.

"In truth," said Sherlock pensively, "a dear friend had recently ended our acquaintance and I felt I had nothing to lose in pursuing my cause."

John looked at him, unsure what to read into this statement. "A dear friend?"

"Victor Trevor. Perhaps I shall tell you about him some time. There was a situation with his father that ended badly, but it was when I first realised my ability to discover the truth through observation."

"What-" John realised that they had reached the bakery and he reluctantly let the topic drop. "I'll see if Harriet's upstairs and then I'll go to Molly," he said.

"I'll be here." Sherlock paused at the door, suddenly serious. "John..." his deep voice trailed off.

"What is it?" John froze, his mouth going dry as Sherlock's gaze dropped briefly to his lips before flickering up to meet his eyes. He too found his gaze falling to Sherlock's lips. With anyone else, this would be the prelude to a kiss. There wasn't very much distance between them. Hardly any, to be frank. A step, a dip of one head, a tilt of the other would be all it would take. John exhaled at the sudden lash of _want._

"Good night," was all Sherlock said, and he took a step back.

John nodded, feeling foolish and trying to ignore the disappointed sinking in his belly. So many good reasons why the alternative would be foolhardy, wrong, and immoral, yet...

"Good night," said John, and opened the door, slipping ahead of Sherlock. Sarah, he reminded himself firmly.

Harriet was in their room and he explained the situation as quickly as he could. She gathered up a small bundle and followed him out the door to the midwife's house. Molly Hooper opened the door, large eyes wide with concern.

"Come with us," John said urgently. "The Inquisition is here. They've closed the village and they are hunting a witch for the murders of Louise Mortimer and Clara Colmer. Lestrade told me to get you out of the village tonight."

Molly's fearful eyes darted between John and Harry. "How? Where-"

"The southern gate. They won't know about it yet. Gather your things, hide in the woods, you can get supplies from Harriet's cottage. Wait until they leave and then you can both return."

Molly nodded and disappeared inside, soon to reappear, dressed and holding a small bundle. "Let us go, then," she said.

The waxing moon lit the village with a faint blue light and they kept carefully to the shadows. Other villagers were still about, returning to their beds after the interrupted bonfire, and twice John and the women had to duck around a corner to avoid being seen. It was cold, and John realised it had been a long while since he'd slept. He longed for his bed in the little room at the bakery, comfortable and warm with Sherlock breathing quietly beside him.

They reached the southern gate without incident, and sure enough found it chained and padlocked. John put the key Lestrade had given him into the lock, which squealed hideously loudly but turned all the same. John had just began pulling the chain through when he froze at the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

There was no cover along the wall, and without clouds to hide the moonlight they would be clearly seen.

"Run - Hide at the mill. Someone's coming," he hissed. He snapped the lock shut and threw the key into the grass by the wall, and then started strolling nonchalantly towards the barn in the opposite direction.

"Halt!" In a moment the rider was upon him, the horse rearing up in front of him. John stopped, hands raised. A sword was levelled at his throat. "What are you doing about at this time of night, villein?"

Two more riders approached from opposite directions, obviously riding along the wall to the gate. "It's locked, sir!" one of them called.

"I caught this fellow lurking here. I thought I saw others. Search the area."

John squinted up into the dark but couldn't make out the face of the guard who held him captive. "Listen, I was just going to see my sweetheart, that's all. I'll get along home now, no harm done." John gave what he hoped was a winning smile.

"Your sweet-" A shrill scream interrupted whatever the guard had been about to say and John's heart sank.

"Sir! Look what I've found."

"More little rabbits," mocked the guard as Molly and Harriet were brought to them. Harriet's arm was twisted behind her back, while Molly head was wrenched back by the guard holding her by her hair. "This your sweetheart, is it?" John's guard sneered. Molly squeaked as her guard yanked her hair.

"Yes," said John stiffly, racking his brains for some sort of explanation for Harriet's presence. "And that's my sister. They were out visiting and I was to meet them, see them both home."

"Your sister _and_ your sweetheart." One of the guards laughed filthily and Molly made a small, scared noise. John's palms began to sweat. He could reach his dagger, if it came to that.

"Well, well, well," said the guard who held John. "I wonder what Brother James will say when he hears about you three. Three out late. Coven meeting, was it? Or trying to flee the justice of the Inquisition? Bring them back to the church."

They were shoved inside St Bartholemew's vestry, wrists and ankles chained and the door locked behind them. The guards had searched them all, stripped them of their over gowns, cloaks, belts, and boots. John's dagger had been taken, but thankfully the women had remained relatively unmolested aside from a few opportunistic gropes. The guards took the candles and lanterns they'd been using as well and the three huddled next to each other on the bare floor in the dark, cold and shivering. The window to the vestry was too small for any of them to squeeze through even had they been able to climb out with the chains. They waited.

Despite it all, John found himself dropping off to sleep and jerking out of his uneasy doze again and again until finally exhaustion and the tedium of waiting lulled him off properly. The sound of the door slamming open startled him awake. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep but from the look of Molly and Harriet as they sat up, sleepy-eyed and startled, they had dropped off too.

The same guard who had captured John held open the door. When they'd entered the lit church earlier, John had recognised him as Captain Moran. Blond, curly hair peeked out from under his helmet and his eyes were a cold green-grey.

The Captain held up a lantern and nodded his head to someone outside the room, then stood aside as the Inquisitor swept into the vestry.

Brother James raked them over with a sweeping glance then whirled on the Captain. "Why are you wasting my time!" he screamed, the Captain flinched slightly and suddenly the Inquisitor was calm again. He stroked a gentle hand over Moran's cheek, studying his face. "Oh, shh...Papa didn't mean to startle you." The Captain stood staring steadfastly straight ahead as if he were used to this erratic behaviour. John swallowed. He'd seen a few highborn commanders in his time who were this volatile; it was always bad news for their prisoners.

"Jim?" said a small voice behind him.

John's eyes snapped to Molly. The Inquisitor spared her a glance, rolling his eyes.

"It is! It is you!" cried Molly. "Jim! Why- why-"

"Why? Why? Spit it out, Molly!" the Inquisitor snapped. A swirl of robes and he was crouched down in front of her like a cat observing a mouse. "Let me ask it for you, shall I? Oh Jim," he said in a mock feminine voice. "'Why did you pretend to be a smelly little molecatcher and put your hand up my skirt and promise to marry me when really you were a noble member of the Dominican order and the Inquisition?' Is that what you were trying to say? Was it, Molly?"

Molly bit her lip, her face scarlet and her eyes welling with tears. She shook.

"WELL?!"

Molly nodded, her lip trembling.

And then suddenly Brother James' face changed, became soft, gentle. He looked at Molly kindly and smoothed the tendrils of hair that had come free from her cap. "Hush, my sweet, how could it have been me? Think hard, my petal. Would a man of God really disguise himself as an itinerant worker, snatch kisses and favours from the pretty midwife, and then disappear into thin air? I don't think so, do you?"

After a long pause, Molly whimpered and shook her head.

"Shh. Good girl. Because, well, that sounds _awfully_ like something the Devil would do, don't you think? An Incubus, not a member of the holy Inquisition. So think hard, Molly the Midwife. Now, you _were_ mistaken, weren't you? Do I really look like the scoundrel who seduced and abandoned you?"

Molly swallowed. "No," she whispered.

Brother James placed a kiss on her forehead and stood. "We really should do something about these travelling workmen. They keep a wench in every town, corrupting good maidens and besmirching their names."

Molly bowed her head, face crimson.

John had had enough. He got to his feet and the Inquisitor spun around to face him, eyebrows lifted absurdly high. "Oh, the little farmhand wants to play. Protecting your womenfolk, how _chivalrous."_

"What have we been accused of?" John asked stiffly. There must be an accusation. There must be a reason for keeping them.

Brother James shrugged. "Nothing. Everything. Whatever I feel like." He ran his gaze over John. "In this room, I have complete power and you are _nothing!_ Now sit down like a good little dog and stay 'til you're called." He looked at the Captain. "This one's the companion of that Franciscan. Keep him, he might be useful." His gaze flickered to Harriet. "Keep them all. I might yet need a distraction if our little bird fails to sing."

And he swept out of the room. The Captain followed, slamming and locking the door behind him, taking the light and they were plunged once more into darkness.

Molly sniffed loudly and John heard her wiping her nose on her shift. "I didn't let him bed me, actually," she said, quietly, bravely, her voice hiccuping slightly. "Actually, I only let him touch my knee and spend himself on my handkerchief. That's all."

Harriet patted her hand. "He's a gobshite if I ever saw one," she said, a hint of steel in her voice that had been missing the past few days. "Don't worry, we've done nothing wrong. We'll be fine. John, tell Molly so."

In the darkness, having just witnessed the behaviour of the man now responsible for their fate, John couldn't bring himself to agree. "We'll just have to trust that the Inquisitor finds the real culprit and goes on his way," he said in the end. "There's no witch, at any rate. Brother Sherlock solved the mystery. Robert Frankland is the man responsible."

"Frankland?" Harriet demanded, shock and anger in her voice. "But what of the Beast- Mistress Hudson said it had been slain."

"A mere wolf. A big one, but just a wolf - both the Inquisitor and Brother Sherlock say so. Frankland used it to try to hide his crimes. He was afraid if Knight had a baby, or Clara bore Knight a nephew, he would lose his inheritance. So he killed them both, lured Louise out of the village and drugged you and Clara so he could kill her too and make you believe you saw a wolf."

"He...Clara, the baby...Louise..." Harriet's voice caught. "All for money...Oh dear God!" She gulped in a sob. "He asked Clara to marry him when Martin died. If...if she had, she mightn't have been killed..."

John exhaled, how long had Franklin been planning this? If he'd married Clara, as her husband and the guardian of her child, he'd have had control over Henry Knight's heir and potential inheritance, and any inheritance Clara and the child received from the Colmer side as well. The money may as well have been his.

"If it wasn't for me..." Harriet breathed.

"No, Harriet," said Molly in a soft voice. "Clara adored you-"

"Don't even think it," John said furiously. "He'd probably have murdered her and her babe anyway, we don't know."

"Will your Brother Sherlock tell this to the Inquisitor?" Molly asked.

"He's not-" John began, but changed his mind. Sherlock was more his than anyone else's. "I don't know," he said. "He doesn't trust the Inquisitor. I'm beginning to see why." Hope flared briefly - if he could just get a message to Sherlock then maybe the friar could intercede on their behalf. But then the realisation that this might put Sherlock in danger, when he had already been interrogated once by the Inquisition, made John's stomach churn.

"If he doesn't tell him, then I will," declared Harriet. "I won't sit by and see Clara's killer walk free-"

"Harriet..." sighed John, dread threading through his veins. "Please, let Lestrade deal with him. Just, keep quiet, don't bring attention to yourself. All right? Frankland will be punished, I promise you. All right? Promise me."

There was a moment's silence then Harriet answered. "All right."

There was a noise out in the church. John clinked over to the door and pressed his ear against it, but couldn't hear anything. He stepped to one side, thinking that if he was quick enough the next time it was opened, and there was only one guard, perhaps he could jump them, put his chains around their neck and pull. It was better than feeling hopeless, at any rate.

Time passed. After a while John sank into a crouch, tiredness overcoming him again. Slowly dawn light began to enter the window of the little room. The bells for Matins tolled, loud and directly above them. Molly prayed and Harriet wrapped her arm around her comfortingly. John waited.

Suddenly he realised he could hear voices coming from inside the church itself. He pressed his ear to the door again. He could make out snatches in various voices, Brother James' voice clear but the other speakers' low and indistinct. He heard the Captain's voice and another with a broad accent. A voice announced the first witness. John pressed closer against the door, straining to hear.

"What is it?" Harriet hissed, but John shushed her.

The witness kept his voice low, so it took John a little while to identify him as Robert Frankland. He held his breath when he realised who it was, wondering if the Inquisitor would make the same connections that Sherlock had. It seemed, however, that there was very little in the way of cross-examination happening and Brother James seemed content to merely record Frankland's statement, of which John could hear very little. He clenched his teeth in frustration as Frankland was allowed to go with the Inquisitor's thanks. He didn't dare tell Harriet what he'd heard for fear of her outcry.

A few other villagers came in, mumbled a grievance against one of their neighbours, and were ordered out after the briefest interview. Father Anderson came at one point, to curry favour with his guest by the sounds of his ingratiating offers of refreshment and assistance. He must have already given evidence because he asked if the Inquisitor needed him to clarify anything. Even Brother James must have had enough, because Father Anderson too was rudely ordered out.

The bells for Prime tolled.

There was some muffled discussion and more footsteps, then John heard the sound of a woman weeping.

"Show Mistress Stapleton to her seat, Captain," he heard Brother James say. A chair scraped the floor, then Brother James spoke again. "Beryl, Beryl. Hush. Your tears are useless here. I know what you've been up to. Ooh Beryl, you've been a very wicked girl."

There was a whimpered response that John couldn't make out.

Brother James tutted. "Lies won't help you, witch. I have a witness who states that you '_brewed a potion that caused a glamour to fall upon any who drank it, bewitching them into seeing monstrous beasts_'. Do you deny it?"

"I do!" cried Beryl. "He gave it to me-"

John hissed in surprise. Frankland must have informed on Beryl; turned her in save his own miserable skin. John held his breath, maybe the truth would out now.

"_Who _gave it to you? The Devil you met in the woods? The one who got you with child?"

"No, no! No, it was-"

"Is that the price he paid for your soul? The power to cast glamours?"

John couldn't hear what Beryl said, and then Brother James lowered his voice too, too quiet to hear the words. Suddenly Beryl cried out again.

"I did not consent! I begged him not to- Please tell him- Why won't you tell him?"

"Captain Moran, the accused keeps trying to look at you. Go to her so she may see you better."

John heard a short cry, like a gasp of fear. His own pulse was racing. His palms were beginning to sweat and he wiped them on his hose.

"Look closely at the good Captain, Beryl. Is this truly the face of the man you met in the woods? If so, then it was an Incubus, for how is it possible that this is the man you dallied with, when he was many miles away at work on holy business?"

"It..." John couldn't make out the rest of her words.

"Either it WAS the Devil or it wasn't - name the man, Beryl, who fathered your child."

Beryl whimpered something.

"You admit he was an Incubus devil, then? What did he promise you in exchange for your corruption?"

Beryl's voice rose in distress. "Nothing! He...promised to let me go if I did what he wanted..."

John shut his eyes for a moment, filled with dismay.

Brother James' tone changed, became soft, soothing. "Beryl, we're only here to help. We want to save you from the devil that has you in its grasp. Confess and you shall be free."

There was another soft cry.

"Admit the truth, Beryl. He gave you a potion and you gave it to Henry Knight's sister, the young Widow Colmer. Why? Out of jealousy? Did you fancy yourself in love with Henry Knight? Was he your lover? Were you bitter that he threw you over? Was that why you killed his sister, to hurt him? Or did he ask you to do it? Did he promise he'd take you to his bed if you did this _one little thing_."

"No, no..."

Brother James sighed theatrically. "Beryl you are leaving me little choice. If you refuse to cooperate, I will be forced to put you to the Question." He clicked his fingers. "Bring in the instruments and show them to Mistress Stapleton."

There followed the sounds of footsteps, a door opening, a man giving orders and returning.

An ominous clink. "Look closely, Beryl. The pincers are pretty, aren't they? I am led to believe they can be very painful, especially when made red-hot in a fire. No blood, of course, it cauterises the wound." He paused, as if considering. "Perhaps you'd prefer to be broken rather than torn? I didn't bring my rack, but you'd be amazed what can be accomplished with a hammer. Or I could simply hang you by your thumbs."

Beryl wailed, and there was a ringing slap of flesh against flesh.

"Forgive me, Beryl, but you were becoming hysterical. Let us try again. Do you, Beryl Stapleton, confess to copulating with an Incubus devil and giving the Devil your soul in exchange for a potion?"

"I - I must have, _I don't know_ - I thought he was a man-"

"But he wasn't, was he, Beryl, and you must know that, in your heart of hearts. Confess your sins and you will be forgiven."

Beryl began to weep again. "I didn't mean for Louise to die. He told me to give her the note - I didn't think- and then she died and it is my fault and I didn't know there was anything wrong with the perry but he told me to give it to Clara and Harriet and I _didn't know!_"

"But you did, didn't you, Beryl, and now they are dead and it was your fault. All your fault. Who is _he?_"

Beryl sniffed wetly. "M...M...Master Frankland."

"Are you sure, Beryl, or was it just your Incubus again, deceiving you? Master Frankland is a good man, a decent member of this community. Would he really ask you to give your friend a note, would he poison pear cider? No!"

Beryl answered too quietly for John to hear. Brother James' voice lowered in response and for a while John couldn't make out what was said.

"Isn't it possible that the person you thought was Master Frankland was in fact the Incubus devil deceiving you? That it was the Devil who made you kill your only friend?"

Beryl sobbed something unintelligible.

"YES OR NO, BERYL!"

"Yes!"

"Brother Jeffrey, please record Beryl's confession."

"Yes, Brother." And John was able to put a name to the voice he'd heard with the thick accent: the other Dominican, he supposed, presumably the Inquisitor's clerk.

There a long moment of silence, broken only by a few quiet sobs from Beryl, and then Brother James spoke again. "Beryl Stapleton, I will now read to you your confession. I, Beryl Stapleton of Baskerville, confess to consorting and copulating with diverse devils and Incubi, from whom I received potions in return for my corruption. I used said potions to bewitch Louise Mortimer and Clara Colmer and thereby cause their deaths. I confess to the crime of witchcraft and heresy against the Holy Church. Is this confession true?"

Through tears Beryl responded. "Yes, Holy Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on me-"

"Brother Jeffrey, please record that the prisoner made a free and spontaneous confession without the influence of force or fear."

Beryl wept and the bell for Terce tolled. An hour. It had only taken an hour to seal Beryl Stapleton's fate. John's stomach twisted with indignation and disbelief. An idiot could see that Beryl had been bullied into her confession. The only devil that had visited her had been the stranger in the woods that had raped her. And then Frankland had blackmailed her into doing his dirty work. Now the poor girl would pay for it in his place.

Had it been Moran who'd raped Beryl? It had, at the very least, been someone who looked like Moran, and although John had heard lurid tales of Incubi and Succubi and didn't doubt the Devil enjoyed his dalliances as much as any mortal man, it stood to reason that if Brother James had been in Baskerville many months ago bothering Molly then it was possible that the Captain had been waiting for him in the woods. What had Brother James been up to? He wondered what Sherlock would make of it, then realised with a terrible lurch that he might never get to speak to the brilliant friar again.

"Beryl Stapleton, we dismiss you from our ecclesiastical forum and abandon you to the secular arm. But we strongly beseech the secular court to mitigate its sentence in such a way as to avoid bloodshed or danger of death. Captain Moran, hand her over the magistrate. I trust he will see that justice is done. Oh, and Sebastian? Remember me to the good Magistrate's sister. Father Anderson has been telling me much about her."

"Yes, sir."

"Bring in Henry Knight on your way back."

John sank down to the floor and released the breath he'd been holding. There was no hope. Sherlock had been right. This man didn't want the truth.

There was the sudden sound of voices as the door to the church was opened. "Make way!" he heard the Captain shout. "This woman has confessed to witchcraft and I must see her to the magistrate!"

A huge noise went up and John realised that the villagers had gathered outside the church. He heard a woman start to wail - poor Beryl he supposed - and shouts and jeering calls, whether in hatred of Beryl or the Inquisition he wasn't sure.

Harriet and Molly looked at him, terrified. John felt fear begin to rise as well. An angry mob would no more listen to reason than this Inquisitor.

After a short while there was more shouting from the crowd before the church door was firmly shut, followed by footsteps and the rattle of a chain. The chair scraped again as someone sat with a heavy clink.

"Ah, Master Knight. So good of you to join us," said Brother James, full of good humour.

"Brother. What is this about?" Henry Knight's voice was weary and empty.

"About? Henry, Henry. This is about your guilt. Dear me...surely you must be ready to confess by now. You are, after all, the reason Louise Mortimer died. And your sister Clara. And their babes. All. Your. Fault."

If Henry replied, John couldn't hear.

Something hit hard against wood. "Admit it! You corrupted Louise Mortimer, lay with her outside of marriage, when all along you _knew_ you were cursed and that you would never find happiness, not while the Beast lived. You thought you were above that, thought you couldn't be touched."

There was a broken sob. "God help me..."

"Ah. You do admit the truth: you are cursed! The whole village knows you are heir to the family shame. It was you who called Louise out onto the common land that night. You, in the guise of a wolf, tore out her throat - and then, in fit of jealousy turned on your own sister!"

"I - no- I'm - Dear God- is it possible? Do you really believe-"

"That you are the werewolf, Master Knight? That a curse that overcomes your senses takes you every month? Look within your heart, Henry, you will know it's true."

"Oh, God! Oh it is, it is true-" Henry started to weep.

"Do you want others to die, Henry? Because of your curse? Do you want more guilt on your soul?"

"No, no."

Brother James' voice lowered and John couldn't make out what he or Henry said for a long while, and then Henry spoke more clearly. "Yes. Yes. Please. Please. Anything, just end this-"

"Good...good, Henry, you've done the right thing..." crooned Brother James. "Here, I've written your confession for you. All you have to do is sign and it will be over. We will be merciful and spare you the flames. One stroke of the axe and it will be over...so quickly. All over."

"Yes. Please. Please." John had never heard anything so broken.

Brother James went through the motions of the formal confession and handing over of the prisoner to the secular authorities for punishment. He heard Henry Knight being taken away, the shouts of the crowd as the condemned man appeared before them.

This time, however, it was Brother James who addressed the crowd. "Your Beast has been discovered! The curse borne by the Knight family for generations has been uncovered. They fooled you all, tricked you into believing a Beast roamed the woods when all along they themselves were the accursed ones. Condemned by a vengeful witch as punishment for crimes of the flesh to act as a beast every full moon, by a glamour to appear as a wolf to all who saw them. The curse was passed down through the generations. As the Scriptures tell us: _'Ye shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me.' _ Thus Henry Knight has suffered, but in his suffering he has sinned and only cleansing death will rid the village of his curse." He paused, voice echoing across the now-silent churchyard. "Be grateful I arrived when I did, for the moon is full tonight; the Beast has been discovered in time. Magistrate, I hand the prisoner over to you to keep secure until his time of reckoning."

The crowd broke into an uproar. John could hear Magistrate Lestrade outside, trying to bring some order. "Stand back! God damn you, stand back! Make way- I am the sodding Magistrate here, my lad, so mind your - Dimmock - to me!"

"Henry Knight has confessed!" he heard someone call not far from the vestry window. "He is the Beast! And Beryl Stapleton is his whore!"

There were angry noises, shouts for Henry and Beryl to burn, ugly cries of 'witch' and 'werewolf' and 'beast'. John twisted his hands in the chains, wondering with foolish optimism if he could break free. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the Inquisitor's convictions aside from finding some scapegoats, and it was clear that he, Molly, and Harriet would be next.

The church door was shut then, and from inside the church he heard murmured conversation, with the occasional erratic outburst from the Inquisitor. Harriet and Molly asked him what was happening, and he told them he didn't know because he couldn't bring himself to tell them the truth: that the Inquisitor would twist lies from them just as he had Henry Knight and Beryl Stapleton, and they had little hope.

Suddenly there was a ruckus at the front of the church and the sound of footsteps.

"Brother James!" snapped the new arrival, his voice a deep baritone and the most welcome sound John had ever heard.

* * *

End note: The following lines were taken almost verbatim from 'The Inquisition' (Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, 1999 pg 35-36).

"...please record that the prisoner made a free and spontaneous confession without the influence of force or fear"

and "...we dismiss you from our ecclesiastical forum and abandon you to the secular arm. But we strongly beseech the secular court to mitigate its sentence in such a way as to avoid bloodshed or danger of death."

You can't make this stuff up. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks as always to my wonderful beta-readers: Tsylvestris, Mid0Nz and Aranel Parmadil, your suggestions, advice and grammar picking make this so much better than it would have been. Big thanks to Mojoflower for moral support! And of course thank you my gorgeous readers for helpful and supportive feedback, I was genuinely distressed after writing this chapter so I hope you enjoy (?) it! xo

Edited to add: check out the amazing art Khorazir had drawn for chapter 8 of beast: khorazir dot tumblr dot com

Warnings: torture (and as per previous chapters)

* * *

Chapter 10: _For witchcraft is high treason against God's Majesty. And so they are to be put to the torture in order to make them confess. _(MM Part 1 Q. 1)

"Oh, _Brother Sherlock_," said the Inquisitor, apparently in delight. "I've heard _so_ much about you. So...pleasant to finally meet you in person."

"Stop this farce. I know your culprit. I am prepared to testify."

From his position behind the door in the vestry, John licked his lips in trepidation, willing Sherlock not to overstep, to tread carefully around this madman.

Brother James began to chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock. May I call you Sherlock? 'Brother' is so formal between friends. _Sherlock,_ I have your little friend, John Watson, here with me." The Inquisitor laughed again. "_Oh,_ look at your face!" He snapped his fingers. "Bring out our prisoners."

John shifted away from the door just before it swung open. Two guards entered, and the three of them were pulled to their feet and hauled into the church proper.

Sherlock's face was pale and tense. His eyes widened when he saw John but he didn't say anything, so John took his cue and didn't either. Harriet looked between the two of them but stayed quiet herself, as did Molly.

Looking around, John was finally able to put images to the sounds he'd been hearing. Along with the Inquisitor, there were two guards, including the Captain, in the body of the church, with another at the door. The other Dominican friar, Brother Jeffrey, sat at a small table to one side, scribbling notes. There was a single chair, for the prisoner or witness, and the rest of the church in front of the altar was bare as usual, save for a table upon which were arrayed a variety of painful-looking tools and a length of rope. A _brasier_ in the corner heated the room slightly compared to the vestry.

The three were deposited before the Inquisitor.

Brother James swept over to the clerk's desk and snatched up a sheaf of papers. He strolled back towards them like a cat particularly pleased with itself. "Let me see...Little Midwife Molly..." He flicked through the papers. "Dear me. Offering Louise Mortimer's unborn child to the Devil. Tut tut. And murdering Clara Colmer's boy child and giving it to your Incubus master. Wicked!"

"I didn't! I wouldn't!" Molly looked at Harry in horror. "I would never-"

Harriet shook her head minutely. "Shh, I believe you," she murmured.

The Inquisitor looked at Harriet. "Harriet Colmer," he said thoughtfully, and looked through the papers. "What _did_ happen to poor Benedict Colmer and his brother Martin? One day you arrived in the village claiming your husband died from a putrid wound; not long after, his brother, Clara's husband, 'accidentally' falls in a ditch on the way home. And the two widows lived happily ever after..." He picked up a piece of paper. "I have here a witness statement that says you and the other Widow Colmer were seen lying on your backs in the woods, _'naked up to the very navel, and it was apparent from the disposition of those limbs and members pertaining to the venereal act and orgasm, as also from the agitation of their legs and thighs, that, all invisibly to the witness, the Widows Colmer had been copulating with Incubus devils'_. Shocking! And then Clara lost her life too. We only have your word that she was killed by the Beast - did your devil come to claim her? How do we know it wasn't _you?_"

Harriet had turned scarlet and her eyes flashed.

"_I would never hurt Clara,_" she spat.

"Come on, then," said John quickly, to draw the Inquisitor's attention. "What about me? What have false accusations do you have about me?"

"John," he heard Sherlock warn.

Brother James pounced. _"John Watson,_" he said gleefully. "Let me see...Preferential use of the left hand...Oh dear. You and Brother Sherlock here have been keeping very close company. And at the same time as you've been walking out with poor, sweet Sarah Sawyer. Dear, oh dear. What would Sarah say if she knew you were committing sodomy with a man of God? Do you think she would approve? Or maybe she does approve. Maybe she joins in. Shall we ask her?"

John blanched. "No. Sarah's done nothing. I've done nothing with either Sarah or Sherlock." The thought of the kiss flickered through his mind, but that was only a kiss. After resisting all his urges, to be punished for them now seemed stupidly unfair.

"Nothing _much,"_ smirked Brother James. "What else - oh yes, a stranger to the town. Now, you claim to be 'John Watson', Harriet Colmer's brother, but are you really? What proof do we have? You know it's happened before: a soldier's friend dies in battle and he takes his dead companion's place, starts a new life...What crimes did you commit in your old life, _'John', _that you need to start afresh here?"

John squared his jaw and stared back, refusing to play this game anymore. "I'm not an hysteric or a nervous wreck like Beryl or Henry. I won't let you browbeat me into making a false confession."

"Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What else have you been up to, Johnny-boy? You just happened to arrive in Baskerville the night Louise Mortimer died, just happened to appear on the scene when your sister-in-law was murdered...were you helping Harriet, John? Or Henry Knight? You were cosying up to him, weren't you? Did he promise you money? A position in the community? Or something else, mayhap? He's young and not that ugly; did he get on his knees for you, Johnny? Or is it only Brother Sherlock who gets to kneel at _that_ altar?"

"Enough!" snapped Sherlock. "What is the purpose of this travesty?"

"But I have so many questions for dear Johnny here. I think I might ask him...one or two," said Brother James with a nasty smirk. "Captain, prepare the _strappado_ if you please. Strip Master Watson and suspend him from that beam."

John felt a tingle of fear in the pit of his belly and refused to acknowledge it. He would not give this bastard the satisfaction.

"Don't be ridiculous," Brother Sherlock snapped. "What do you want, James Moriarty?"

He shrugged. "I don't know...sometimes, I just get _bored."_

Captain Moran slung a rope up over a solid roof beam. He strode over to John, unchained his wrists, and stripped off his shirt. John stared off into the middle distance. He could do this, he could pretend this wasn't even happening. This was nothing.

He was shoved over to where the rope had been slung and his arms were bound behind his back with one end of the rope. It tugged at his wrists as Moran pulled on the other end and then wound it around part of the pulpit to keep it taut. John's biceps protested the unnatural strain and he flexed his arms, trying to adjust to the pull. He glanced at Sherlock and found him watching. He swallowed and attempted a reassuring smile but Sherlock only looked dismayed.

"I prefer to avoid torture," Brother James said conversationally to Sherlock. "It isn't much of an intellectual challenge. Sometimes, however, it is necessary when a prisoner is tediously stubborn."

Brother James came closer. John lifted his chin and waited for whatever nonsense the madman was going to spew next.

"Up on his toes please, Sebastian," the Inquisitor ordered lightly, and with a sharp jerk that made John hiss, he was wrenched upwards by the rope tied around his wrists, pulling his arms up behind his back at an unnatural angle, until he was standing on his toes to keep his weight off his shoulder sockets. His stiff shoulder protested violently as well and he breathed through his nose. God, let him get through this without dislocating his shoulders, without permanently damaging them more than they were already. He knew of the _strappado,_ and on the battlefield he'd witnessed what could happen when prisoners were tied with this type of restraint. He'd seen men's limbs wrenched from their sockets, elbows dislocated, the strings of their arms torn apart, never to heal properly. Long-term, agonising pain aside, what living could he make without the use of his arms? He pushed down the fear, breathing steadily, refusing to let Brother James see he was affected.

"Unpleasant, isn't it?" the Inquisitor purred. He slung an arm around John's shoulders, adding to the weight pulling against his arms. John winced, his breath quickening.

"Let him down," Sherlock bit out. His mouth was pressed tight, turned down at the corners, and his face very pale.

Brother James ignored Sherlock and stroked John's cheek in a mockery of affection. "What was that, John? What did Brother Sherlock make you do?" He gasped in mock surprise, his face contorted in parody. "He put what? Where?" His expression changed and he wore a light, mocking smirk. "I can make him say whatever I like, and Brother Jeffrey will write it down and it will be _all_ the evidence I need. Do you see, Brother Sherlock? I. Can. Do. What. I. Want." He lifted his arm from around John's shoulders and John straightened with relief.

"And what is it that you _want_?"

"Careful, Brother Sherlock." Brother James smoothed his black robe. "A Franciscan like yourself, with a reputation for, shall we say, _independent_ thought...My! Imagine if I discovered a member of a heretical sect, here in Baskerville. A Franciscan heretic, dabbling in witchcraft. Wouldn't my fellow Dominicans be interested?" He smirked.

Well then, if that's how it was going to be, John thought, then enough was enough. "All right, you've made your point. Stop this. Sherlock's innocent. You're going to convict me anyway; let's do it without the song and dance. I confess."

"John, no!" Harriet and Sherlock cried out, whilst Molly squeaked.

He lifted his chin, meeting Sherlock's unhappy gaze. "It was me. No one else. Sherlock, Harriet, Molly - they're all innocent. Let them go. You want another scapegoat, fine. Sign me up."

Brother James laughed. "Oh, I can see why you like having him around. So brave and touchingly loyal. He's like one of those little yapping lap dogs that fat dowagers own. But, oops! You've rather given yourself away there, Master Watson." He clicked his fingers and one of the guards came up behind Sherlock, pulling his hands roughly behind his back and chaining them. "I can make you both confess."

John struggled against his bonds, sucking in his breath at the pull in his sockets. "Leave him be!"

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded again.

"Don't you understand yet? And I thought you were supposed to be _brilliant!"_

"Understand what? That you're an amoral madman abusing the power of your office? Yes, that's fairly obvious."

Brother James looked genuinely disappointed. "It's a little side-line, given that heresies and witchcraft accusations are so _tediously_ transparent. I fix things, Brother Sherlock. Fix little problems, make them go away with a flick of my dear Brother Jeffrey's quill. Now, I'm sure you've worked it out." Brother James advanced on Sherlock. "Dear Brother Jim," he said in a sing-song voice. "I'm having a problem with the moneylenders, can you help me? Dear Brother Jim, I really dislike my mother-in-law..."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Dear Brother Jim, I'm about to be disinherited," he finished for the Inquisitor.

"Just so." Brother James smirked, his eyes locked on Sherlock's.

"You arranged this, with Frankland. He murders Knight's heirs, you sweep in and dispatch Knight, and Frankland inherits it all free of suspicion, save for a small commission to you, I assume."

John exhaled, the building strain of the_ strappado_ forgotten, as a picture of what Brother James had been up to became clear: visiting the village disguised as the molecatcher so many months ago, liaising with Frankland, learning the villagers' dirty secrets and puzzling out the way for Frankland to take Henry Knight's wealth. Or had he been drumming up business, found Frankland, and whispered seductive words in his ear like the serpent he was? Moran must have been with him and raped Beryl Stapleton at the same time.

Brother James examined his fingernails. "Well, one does have expenses. It costs so much to keep friends in high places."

"Brilliant," said Sherlock softly. That was not the word John would have used.

Disgusted, his mind reeled from the implications of what he had heard. Had Brother James provided Frankland with the potion, when it became clear that Louise Mortimer would have to die to prevent Knight from producing an heir? Had Frankland always planned to kill Clara too, or had he held out hope up until nearly the end of her pregnancy, that he could woo her? John recalled Mother Colmer's mortifying matchmaking attempt at Louise Mortimer's funeral and he wondered if Frankland had overheard.

Brother James sighed in satisfaction. "Isn't it, though? No one ever connects me, and no one ever will."

"I have, though," said Sherlock, eyes locked with the Inquisitor.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you." Sherlock's lips quirked upwards and John's stomach sank. Sherlock, who had let himself be tortured rather than speak against the truth, was not going to allow Brother James to keep his lies. Brother James of the Inquisition, immune from any criticism and accusation on pain of condemnation as a heretic. He undoubtedly had high-level connections to protect him should that fail. This would not end well.

He breathed through his nose as the _strappado_ began to do its slow but relentless work; he was finding it harder to keep his weight on his toes as his leg and arm muscles began to burn, his shoulder joints to ache.

"I didn't mean it as a compliment." Brother James' mouth twisted mockingly.

"Yes, you did."

"Yes, very well, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock... Papa's had enough now!" He grinned. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

"Sherlock..." warned John, wanting to tell him to stop goading the madman.

"Kill you?" Brother James grimaced. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you someday. I don't want to hasten it, though. I think I'll save it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn your little friend." He stepped closer, nose to nose. "Take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off." He smiled and rocked back on his heel.

The muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched. "People will die."

"That's what people DO!"

"I will stop you."

"No, you won't." He clicked his fingers and one of the guards hauled on the rope attached to John's wrists, levering his arms up. John's breath rushed out of him and the world went white for a moment as he was pulled off the ground and then dropped back onto the tips of his toes. He swayed as he tried to find his balance and keep the weight off his agonised shoulder joints. _Jesus, Holy Mother-_

Sherlock hissed. "Damn you!"

"Sebastian, bring the _brasier_, and the branding irons, if you please."

Harriet gasped and Molly made a small, scared sound.

"Stop!" barked Sherlock, his expression suddenly stricken. His eyes flickered to John's and John lifted his chin, pushed back the pain in his arms, the growing fear in his gut, and met Sherlock's gaze squarely.

A guard held out a selection of blackened branding irons. Brother James chose one.

"The crucifix," he purred. "You remember this one, don't you, Sherlock?" He shoved the iron between the coals in the _brasier_.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "That _was _you."

"I had a vested interest. I followed your trial, _avidly._" He grinned. "I was rather worried; you'd made quite the compelling argument. If your fat brother and esteemed father hadn't intervened when they did, I thought the Inquisitors might have taken it to a higher authority."

"I was right," breathed Sherlock. "Carl Powers was innocent."

"But annoying. He was bothering me." He shrugged. "That's beside the point, though. Sebastian?"

Moran drew the iron out of the fire and spat on it, causing a sizzle. "Not hot enough," he said.

Brother James waved his hand. "It will do. Now...where would it look pretty?"

He stepped closer to John and touched his cheek. John willed himself not to react. "He's ugly enough already. We don't want to scare the children, do we, Sebastian?"

"No, Sir."

Despite his best efforts, John did flinch as Brother James stabbed a blunt finger into the scar on his shoulder. "_This_ is fascinating. Look, Sebastian, a hand-cannon pellet wound. Here, I think. I do so love the way scarred flesh shrivels up when burnt."

John grit his teeth and steeled himself as Moran raised the iron.

"On the other hand..." Brother James raised his hand to stay the assault. "Over his heart, I think. Since that's what this is all about, wouldn't you agree, Brother Sherlock?"

"Stop this!" roared Sherlock, then added quietly, a desperate, pleading edge to his voice, "Please. Just...stop."

Brother James smirked. "Are you _begging_, Brother Sherlock?"

"Yes, I'm begging. Blessed Mother - stop!"

Brother James shrugged. "Very well. Since you asked so nicely." He clicked his fingers and the other guard released the rope and lowered John to the ground.

John relaxed his arms and cautiously rolled his shoulders, stretching against the muscle burn. The bones shifted uncomfortably in the sockets with unpleasant clicks, but it wasn't too bad, nothing he couldn't toler-

"On the other hand-"

John screamed as Moran thrust the brand against his left breast, just under his scar, just over his heart. When the Captain drew the iron away, blackened skin came with it, and John was left panting, the stench of his own burnt flesh filling his nose.

"John!"

"Sorry, boys! I'm _so_ inconstant!" Brother James shrugged. "It is a weakness with me, but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock demanded.

John swallowed, agony radiating from his shoulders, his chest blazing.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead." Brother James' face loomed before him, grinning obscenely. John wouldn't give him the satisfaction and instead raised his eyes to Sherlock's and nodded. Sherlock lifted his chin.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the entrance to the church.

"Sir!" called the guard standing there. "There's a nun at the door, wanting to see you."

Brother James pulled a moue of confusion. "Send her in!"

The same nun who had directed John and Sherlock in to see the Abbess over a month ago hurried into the church. "Brother James?" she asked.

He inclined his head. "Sister."

She handed him a letter. "My mistress, Abbess Irene of Belgravia Abbey, is awaiting you in Lauriston. Somewhere mutually agreeable."

Brother James perused the letter, then looked at the nun sharply. "Is this the truth?"

"My mistress would not lie to a member of the Holy Inquisition, Brother James."

He threw the letter at Brother Jeffrey, and looked around at the assembly, smirking. "Well, it looks like you all live to sin another day. I will release you into the care of dear Brother Sherlock. Brother Sherlock, I believe we understand each other."

Sherlock tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Don't go anywhere!" called Brother James with a laugh as he swept towards the door, snapping his fingers for his men to follow.

Sherlock waited until Brother James, the guards and Brother Jeffrey had slammed the church door behind them, and then he was upon John, quickly unbinding his wrists and throwing the rope to one side.

"All right?" he demanded urgently, easing John's arms around, fingers gently probing his shoulders. "Are you all right?"

John swallowed. "Yes, yes, I'm fine-"

Sherlock spun around him, hands hovering at his shoulders, surveying the branding wound.

"That, er... thing that you, er, that you did." He peered down at John's wound. "That, um..." He cleared his throat."... you offered to do." He examined John's shoulder. "That was, um... good." He looked up and his gaze burned into John's, intense and unsettled.

"The women, Sherlock-" said John weakly.

Sherlock blinked, then raced over to the key for their shackles from where it had been tossed on the table of torture implements. John sagged onto the ground, spent and in pain. Sherlock quickly unchained the two women, who ran to John. Harriet, in tears, threw her arms around him.

"Oh, you great prat, what were you doing? You were the one who told me to keep my mouth shut."

John laughed weakly and then hissed as she accidentally bumped his chest.

"Sorry! Sorry!" she said, hands fluttering about him.

"Here," said Molly. "Let me see." She screwed up her face in a wince as she examined John's burn and also his shoulders. "I think your arms will be fine, they're not dislocated and you still have movement, but that burn will leave a scar. I have some herbs, um, and unguents in my house."

"Harriet, help me get John back to the bakery. Molly, if you could get those medicines, we'll-"

"What's happening here?" It was Dimmock. "I saw the Inquisitor leave with two of his guards- Oh, God...Master Watson."

John smiled weakly. "Not a witch after all. What a relief," he said.

Dimmock laughed weakly. "Um, can - here, let's get you home." He ducked out of the church again and in a moment returned with William Murray.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Murray swore. "Let's get you home, then." He and Sherlock helped John to his feet.

Dimmock cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, mistresses, but, um, you're - I don't suppose your garments are to hand?"

Molly and Harriet looked at each other, both still only in their shifts, and blushed before giggling with mingled relief and embarrassment. They found their clothes, and John's, by the door to the vestry. With shaking hands and help from Sherlock, John dressed, wincing as the fabric brushed against the burn wound on his chest.

"Come on, then, the crowd have cleared out," said Dimmock. "Most everyone went home when they saw the Inquisitor leave."

"He'll be back," said Sherlock. "What's to happen to Henry Knight and Beryl Stapleton?"

Dimmock avoided Sherlock's eye. "They're guilty of witchcraft, aren't they? Confessed to it. They're to die on the morrow."

"Lestrade could give them a lighter sentence, imprisonment or penance- Beryl at least. You know they didn't -"

"I don't know what I know, Brother," said Dimmock firmly. "The Inquisition has found them guilty and they've confessed, there's naught we can say about that. The village is baying for their blood and the Inquisitor said Henry Knight had to die to end the curse. Master Lestrade can't gainsay that. On top of it all, Master Lestrade's afraid of what the Inquisitor will do if he doesn't - well, Mistress Donovan is a headstrong woman and a Moor, ain't she?"

They helped John out of the church. A few villagers remained in the churchyard, still talking about what had happened long after the fact, eyeing the group with suspicion as they hurried past. There were some low mutterings and John heard the words 'midwife' and 'wench'. Molly and Harriet shot each other looks of concern as one of the men called out, demanding to know where they were going.

Molly went ahead with Dimmock to her home while the others went on more slowly to the bakery. She rejoined them not long after John had been undressed again and helped into bed. Mistress Hudson brought him food and drink and tutted over him while Molly dressed his wound and wrapped a bandage around his chest. She rubbed salve into his shoulders; John was reminded of another shoulder rub not so long ago and he couldn't help but look towards Sherlock. The other man, however, stood pensively at the window. Seeing Sherlock worried sat uncomfortably upon John's heart and he looked away.

"There," Molly said after she'd eased him down onto the mattress. She had a kind smile despite the tiredness in her eyes. "I can make a sleeping draught if the pain is keeping you awake, or something to help with that too, if you like."

John shook his head. He'd dealt with worse, and now that he was lying down, his shoulders and upper arms no longer ached much; it was just his chest that throbbed. "Just need some sleep," he said.

"Molly," said Sherlock from where he'd been hovering by the bed.

"Yes?"

"Take this." Sherlock handed her a piece of folded parchment and a key. "It's Frankland's copy of the key to the southern gate. You should still leave. Now, if you can. You too, Harriet." He bit his lip and didn't look at John. "I suppose I'm wasting my breath asking you to go as well, John?"

"Are you leaving?"

"No."

"Then don't be an idiot. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. "Very well," he said.

Molly looked between them, nervous still. "Mistress Howard is expecting her bairn- I..."

"You won't do her any good dead at the stake, Molly," said John. "Pray that the Inquisitor is done with his work and leaves us in peace sooner rather than later."

Molly bit her lip and then nodded. "Very well. Um. Well then, I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you, both of you. Please don't do anything silly."

Harriet came over and kissed John's cheek. "I'm not leaving my only brother."

John shook his head. "No, please Harr', go."

She hesitated.

"_Go_," John insisted. "Take Father's tool chest. You never know, it might come in handy."

"_John_," she breathed.

"Please." Suddenly he remembered something and, wincing, sat up.

"You're supposed to be resting!" Molly reprimanded.

"I will, I just- Harriet, in my bag, at the front near the bottom, there's a leather pouch." She frowned and retrieved the pouch with a clink. John nodded. "Take it. I'd rather you have it than the Church, if it comes to that." He knew he sounded bitter but it didn't matter. He was betrayed by the Church, by the fact that Brother James' perfidy went unchecked, that lies were held up as truths and there was nothing that could be done.

"John, I couldn't...your savings..."

"Please," he said, and something in his tone must have convinced her because she agreed.

Harriet went a bit pink and her eyes welled. "I'm so glad we got to know each other once again." She embraced him carefully and kissed him on the cheek. "If anything happens...if, well, at least we had a little bit of time." She pulled back and gave him a wobbly smile. "I'll be praying for you. For you both."

"Thanks Harr'." He clasped her hand. "Be well."

He watched the women go down the stairs and then with a wince he lay down again. He rolled his stiff and sore shoulders again and tried to get comfortable. Maybe he should have accepted a draught for the pain after all.

Sherlock stood by the window. He turned slightly once John was settled. "Sleep," he said and took a seat on the chair in the corner.

Safe, in his bed in the bakery, with Sherlock watching over him, painful wound and strained muscles and all, John did sleep. Exhaustion carried him off and when he stirred again night had fallen and all but one of the rushlights were out. Sherlock sat in the chair, fingers clasped under his chin, staring at nothing.

"Sherlock," he said, voice croaky with sleep.

Sherlock's gaze flickered towards him.

"Come to bed. You'll need sleep."

"I need to think."

"Sherlock, bed," John insisted.

Sherlock met his gaze, and at the hunted expression on his face something inside John's stomach coiled. He held open the covers in invitation, finding that his shoulders no longer ached so badly, although the movement did make his burn throb anew.

Sherlock blew out the last rushlight and slipped in beside him, curling up underneath the covers, knees drawn up, pressing against John's thighs. This change from top to toe made John's pulse quicken; it seemed overdue. They lay there in the darkness, the only sounds their breath and the rustle of rough wool against the bedclothes. John's heart thudded in his chest, loud in his ears. Sherlock shifted slightly and John felt a light touch of fingertips on his wrist, against his pulse, as if Sherlock was reassuring himself that his heart was still beating. Then the gentle press was gone and in its place was the brush of fingertips over his cheek. The slight tremor in that touch sent an unexpected shiver down his spine to pool at his hips. John exhaled, and he felt Sherlock do the same, a puff of breath, warm and not unpleasant against his lips.

Those searching fingertips drew shakily downwards, tracing along John's jaw, rasping over stubble, over his Adam's apple. John swallowed as the light touch came to rest on the soft spot at the base of his throat. Sherlock shifted again, knees unbending slightly and stockinged feet coming to rest against the tops of his own. John's own fingers, no longer so steady either, found woollen robe and gripped it, sliding his hips closer, an unacknowledged need and hope curling low in his belly.

Sherlock's nose brushed against his and John nudged back; their foreheads touched, noses bumping together. Sherlock sighed and John's own exhalation sounded loud to his ears. Then, with the slightest brush, soft lips touched against John's; such a light, inconsequential sensation but it sent heat pooling downwards to glow in his belly and spark a needful feeling in his loins. His tongue darted out to taste where Sherlock's lips had been and he lifted his face, nudging with nose and chin until - there, again, soft lips and a puff of breath. Veins thrumming, he stilled, lips touched against Sherlock's, eyes squeezed tight despite the dark. So very different to the bold kiss, drunken and reckless, from the night in the cottage.

John's fingers twisted in the fabric of Sherlock's robe and his breath held. He drew his lips across Sherlock's, a tiny, barely perceptible movement but one which left tingling sensation in its wake. Sherlock's lips parted on a sigh and then abruptly he froze and pulled back, his hand curling up on John's chest, just below his bandage.

"John- forgive me," his said, voice low and choked.

John's heart hammered in his breast, wilful desire making him throw sense aside. "I've already been tortured by the Church. I might as well do something to deserve it," he said, aiming for levity but getting bitterness instead.

Sherlock gave a startled laugh, deep and throaty, and in a swift movement kissed John fiercely. They shared kisses, more chaste than many John had known but the sweeter for it- this strange, angelic creature, cupping his face in long-fingered hands, pressing perfect soft lips to his in short desperate bursts. John's hand unclenched its hold on Sherlock's robe and splayed across rough wool-covered ribs. A knee nudged between his and a hardness pressed against his thigh, answering his own. He pushed closer and Sherlock whimpered against his lips.

John stilled. He shouldn't, _shouldn't_ be doing this. For his part, he couldn't bring himself to care anymore what the Church did or didn't think, but Sherlock-

"John?"

John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, kept his voice hushed. "Oh, God, I want...to touch you...I shouldn't tempt you-"

Sherlock's hand cupped the back of his head and held him there. "I want you to. Please."

It was the "please" that did it, desperate and pleading, an echo from when Sherlock had begged the Inquisitor to spare him. John didn't need to be asked twice. He sought Sherlock's lips again and his fingers glided over wool, tugging up Sherlock's robe, seeking and finding a hem, slipping under, palming a warm, hose-covered calf. Sherlock broke their kiss, pressed his forehead to John's once more, breath rough. His fingertips trailed down John's throat and skimmed lightly over his shoulder as John ran his palm up a lanky leg, feeling thigh muscles quiver under his touch.

Sherlock's fingers flared against John's shoulder and ran restlessly over his back. John pressed forward, closer, sliding his hand to rest over Sherlock's breeches. Sherlock found his lips again and took a deeper kiss this time, brushing his tongue against John's, their mouths sliding together before Sherlock pulled away to sit up. John heard the rustle of wool and the bed jostled as Sherlock flung his robe to the floor before sliding under the covers again.

He was all knees and elbows as he nestled back in, but John didn't care and reached for him in the dark, finding a bony hip and soft lips. He took a kiss, a gentle parting of lips, the briefest glance of tongue. After a moment Sherlock stilled, very close. There were two heartbeats, two warm breaths, and two fingertips ghosting briefly over his bandage, then Sherlock reached for his hand and brought it up, pressing it flat, palm down against his chest. John ran his fingers over the spot and felt unnatural smoothness, a discontinuity. In the darkness he traced the shape of the mark and with dawning horror felt the form of a crucifix. Sherlock took his hand again and placed it on his stomach, the soft skin there, raised too in the twin lines of a cross. John swallowed against the bile in his throat as Sherlock took his hand again and placed it on his back, just above his tailbone.

"Jesus Christ," John breathed as he felt the scarring there too. He ran his palm up the curve of Sherlock's spine and then tightened his arm, pulling him in tightly, feeling the flare of his own wound as Sherlock's pressed against his chest. The pain, clear and certain, was strangely satisfying, cleansing somehow, and it burned away the last of his qualms. Sherlock bowed his forehead to John's and those long fingers cupped his cheek again; he nudged their noses together and found his lips. They kissed, the bitterness John felt, the betrayal by his faith, dissolving under the gentle onslaught. He might die tomorrow, horribly, painfully. Sherlock might die too, but tonight they had this.

In the dark he explored Sherlock's body, stroking smooth skin, skimming over the cruel marks of the brands, finding a smattering of hair, the ridges of ribs, the dip of a navel, the twin points of masculine nipples, an elegant arch of throat and collarbone, and then a long sweep along the curve from shoulder to breeches. And all the while taking kisses, receiving kisses, shivering as Sherlock's fingers roamed, tentative and wondering, over his body. Large, long-fingered hands splaying open over his side, exploring from hip to belly to chest and back again. Their breaths quickened along with their flesh, nudging now more firmly against each other in the beginnings of their rutting.

Sherlock whimpered against John's lips. "John..." he pleaded, broken-voiced.

"I've got you, let me," John murmured, and slid his hand around Sherlock's hip, dipping under the rough linen of his breeches to silk-smooth skin and coarse curls to find heated flesh, hard under his hand. He closed his palm around Sherlock's prick, so similar to his own but different too. A frisson of _want_ shot through him_._

"John..." Sherlock groaned and bucked into the circle of John's hand. "Oh, God, I need -."

"Shh, I'll take care of you," John said and, ignoring the weak protest of his arm muscles, the blazing throb in his chest rendered negligible by lust, he set to with firm strokes, placing kisses on forehead and cheeks, and murmuring words of encouragement over panted breaths. He felt Sherlock's movements grow more urgent, his bollocks tighten under his cradling palm, and he quickened his pace until Sherlock gave a low cry and jerked against him, trembling as he spent himself, hot splashes of his seed falling on John's belly and thigh.

Sherlock took deep, gasping breaths and then, still breathing heavily, wordlessly kissed John's lips and reached for the front of his breeches, stroking the firm outline of his manhood with curious fingers until it was John's turn to give a low cry. He rubbed against Sherlock's hand, prick straining against the linen between them, desperate and needful. Sherlock tugged down the troublesome fabric and reached inside, the warm touch against John's aching prick making him groan once more.

He heard a soft chuckle by his ear and he buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder as the other man began to explore his wanton member. _Oh._ How he'd missed this, this touch of a hand other than his own. How he'd _wanted_ this, hadn't dared to wish for it, _Sherlock's_ touch, Sherlock's hand. Pleasure curled, bright and urgent, building with each cautious touch, so hesitant and fumbling compared to the whores and jolly girls he had lain with, but all the sweeter for that. It made something brave and fervent, something possessive, burn inside John's chest.

He crooned soft reassurances - "_Yes, that's good, like that._ _Yes...there, like that, my sweet"_ - and soon Sherlock found a commendable rhythm and John's world narrowed to stroke and pull and breath.

"My John," breathed Sherlock and the words and the sound of it made John bite his lip and buck against him. It didn't take very long after that for John to reach his completion. He swore and clutched at Sherlock as he spent himself between them, probably on Sherlock's belly, given how close they were lying.

He lay gasping, blinking as the brightness receded. They lay there in the dark as panted breaths gradually calmed, sleep creeping upon them. Sherlock's lips were pressed to his forehead in a long, single kiss. John stroked his sides affectionately, sated and good-humoured, a glow of something bright and warm in his heart. It made him grin foolishly in the dark and press lazy kisses on the parts of Sherlock he could reach.

Finally Sherlock shifted, slipping out of bed. John saw his silhouette against the window, lit from without by the full moon. He heard the splish of water and the sound of washing before Sherlock returned to the bed and, by touch alone, cleaned John's belly and thighs. He swiped at the bed between them. Long fingers glided over his bandage and then stroked over his shoulders briefly before returning the cloth to the basin.

There was a rustle of fabric as Sherlock dressed. With a sigh, John tucked his now-flaccid member back into his breeches, his chest wound making itself known with a heat that caught his breath, and held the bedclothes open for Sherlock to return. His fingers ghosted briefly over John's face when he did so but he did not take another kiss, instead settling onto his back, hands folded neatly on his chest. John shifted on his pillow and rested his hand on Sherlock's forearm, pressing his lips briefly to his wool-covered shoulder before arranging himself more comfortably.

"Goodnight," he said, for want of so many better words.

"Sleep, John," said Sherlock, quietly admonishing, but his hand closed over his under the covers and he tilted his face towards him, his breath warm and even against his forehead. John felt worries and fear tug at his thoughts but he banished them. Let them have this peace, just for this moment. Then Sherlock inhaled sharply and rolled onto his side towards him, tugging him into an embrace, burying his face in his hair. He held John like that for a long moment and John held him back before, finally, Sherlock released him and settled back, linking their hands on his chest. John fell asleep watching his silhouette in the dark.

In the morning, when he awoke, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

Endnotes: The part of Harriet's 'accusation' in quotes was taken almost verbatim from the Malleus Maleficarum.

I use the Old French term 'brasier' instead of 'brazier' which didn't appear until the late 1600s.

Thanks as always to Ariane DeVere for her excellent transcripts, this time for the Great Game (of course) which I used shamelessly.

And bonus points if you can spot where I blatantly put Mycroft's words in Moriarty's mouth :P (thanks Mojo)


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Huge thanks to my fabulous beta-readers: Aranel Parmadil, Mid0Nz and Tsylvestris, without whom this chapter would be much poorer. Thank you to everyone who left feedback, kudos, favourites etc, feedcrack is my drug of choice and I really appreciate the time taken to let me know what you thought of a chapter. If you haven't checked out Khorazir's amazing art inspired by Beast please do at Khorazir dot tumblr dot com.

**Warnings:** Character death, violence

* * *

**Chapter 11:**_ Again, the laws decree that clerics shall be corrected by their own Judges, and not by the temporal or secular Courts, because their crimes are considered to be purely ecclesiastical. (Malleus Maleficarum Part 3, General Introduction)_

John sat up in a panic. Before he could call for Sherlock, there was a pounding on the door downstairs. He scrambled out of bed and pulled on his shirt, muscles protesting and his chest still throbbing. He could hear Mistress Hudson below, and two male voices, loud and demanding. He belted his overgown in place and had just pulled on his boots when the door to his room was flung open and Captain Moran and a short, fox-haired guard stormed in. The other guard was on John before he had time to speak and grabbed roughly at his shoulder. As blinding pain seared through him, John saw red. Without thinking, he slammed his forehead against the guard's nose, eliciting a high-pitched, gurgled yelp from the man and earning a ferocious backhand across his cheekbone.

Well then, John thought, dark amusement welling up, apparently he was going to go down fighting. He pulled back his fist to let one fly just as Moran grabbed him from behind. John threw his head backwards but Moran wasn't as stupid as his mate and dodged out of the way, planting a well-aimed blow to John's kidneys and kicking his legs from under him at the same time. John went down, coughing and dazed, and was rewarded with a boot in the guts from the injured guard for his troubles.

He was unceremoniously thrown face-down on the bed and his wrists cuffed behind his back, none too gently, the pressure and pull on his burnt chest making his stomach heave. He gritted his teeth against nausea and the protest of shoulder muscles and joints being thus handled so soon after the abuse of the day before.

"Stay where you are, Watson," Moran snapped. He went over to their belongings by the wall and began pawing through John's pack and Sherlock's satchel.

"What are you after?" John demanded as all their possessions were thrown about.

"Shut it," spat the red-headed guard, voice slurred from his smashed nose, holding a rag to his bloody nose. "What's this?" he asked, holding Sherlock's _viola di braccio _in his free hand.

Moran eyed it suspiciously. "Smash it open, make sure there's no hidden compartment."

"For God's sake!" John swore as the guard shook the instrument roughly and then shattered the wooden body against the chair. Whatever it was they were looking for, destruction seemed to be the point of the search. "What are you looking for?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

Moran didn't bother responding but then he found a piece of folded up parchment in Sherlock's satchel and pulled it out triumphantly. He opened it and squinted at it, lips moving as he read the words written there.

"This is it," he said to the other guard. He glanced at John and smirked nastily. "Bring Watson, he can enjoy the fun too."

He was hauled up by his wrists, making him gasp with pain and curse loudly, and then shoved out the door of the bedroom.

"Oh, John," cried Mistress Hudson as they passed her at the door to the bakery, her hand fluttering at her mouth in distress. John gave her an apologetic smile but he had nothing reassuring to say.

A crowd was gathering on the common as they approached. Small children ran about, eager to see the spectacle. Two big pyres had appeared on the green space, upon which stood Henry Knight and Beryl Stapleton, chained to stakes rising from the middle of the wood. The pyres were not yet alight and John came to a standstill as he took in the sight. Brother James' betrayal of his promise to spare Henry Knight from the pyre just added to the litany of wrongs committed. The shorter guard, whose name John discovered was Morris, shoved him between the shoulders and he stumbled onwards.

The guards shouldered their way through the crowd towards the church. Some wags made catcalls as John passed but he ignored them, scanning the crowd for Sherlock. There was no sign of the tall Franciscan and John hoped that meant he was somewhere safe.

Moran left them outside St Bartholomew's and went inside. John looked around, still trying to catch sight of the lanky friar, still wondering where he had gone, why he had slipped out before John awoke.

Suddenly, the church door was flung open and the Inquisitor appeared. He stepped to one side, and a familiar grey-clad figure was shoved through the door after him, wrists bound, Moran behind him, another guard at his side.

John swallowed back sudden bile, his stomach clenching. _God...no..._

Sherlock scanned the crowd. His eyes fixed on John's; the corner of his mouth twitched slightly and he looked almost apologetic. John exhaled and gave him a rueful smile in return, his chest painfully constricted. _Holy Mary, not Sherlock-_

People were beginning to gather. Father Anderson appeared from inside the church as well and then Magistrate Lestrade pushed his way up onto the step. He appeared distressed and there was a low, hurried conversation before he looked at Sherlock who nodded once. The magistrate turned and left the church in disgust.

"Good morrow, people of Baskerville," intoned Brother James, his voice carrying across the cold morning. A hush fell over the crowd. "You are here, no doubt, to witness the holy and lawful execution of two enemies of the Faith."

There was a rumble from the crowd but the Inquisitor held up his hand, silencing them.

"It is my sad duty to inform you that another heretic has been discovered this morning: a viper in the breast of the Church, a wolf in sheep's clothing! A document has been found on Brother Sherlock's person which proves he is a member of a heretical sect of the Franciscan Order!"

John swallowed, sickened.

A rumble started up in the crowd. He dared to think it might be one of disbelief.

"Silence!" shouted Brother James. He held aloft a document that might have been the parchment Moran had found amongst Sherlock's belongings. "Brother Sherlock is guilty by his own hand! In the face of such evidence he has had no choice but to confess!"

The realisation hit John like a physical blow - Abbess Irene's puzzle, the translation Sherlock had made, had kept, that Moran had found amongst his belongings. That must have been what the Abbess wanted to talk to Brother James about in Lauriston. She had betrayed Sherlock for her own protection.

Brother James turned towards Sherlock with an ugly smile. "Go on, Brother Sherlock," he said. "The people are waiting."

Sherlock held John's eyes as he took a breath and stepped forward. "I _confess-_" he began, the word sour upon his lips. John's breath caught in his throat and his heart pounded, waiting for Sherlock to turn this around, to reveal the truth before the assembled witnesses. "-to heresy. I am a member of a secret Franciscan sect which renounces all wealth, nay, demands that the Church become as Christ and His disciples and give up all worldly goods unto the poor. Furthermore, since I have been discovered and have learned the error of my ways I am willing to cooperate _thoroughly_ with the Inquisition to protect my sorry skin."

He broke his eye contact with John to raise an eyebrow at Brother James. The Inquisitor stared back at him, a slight smile playing upon his lips. A silent conversation passed between them.

Brother James nodded finally. "As Brother Sherlock is a Franciscan, I will take him to Rome to stand trial and be questioned by the highest authorities. Thus we may learn whom his accomplices in the Franciscan Order are, so they may be torn from the body of the holy Church like the putrefying flesh that they are."

Brother Sherlock bowed his head for a moment before raising it, chin firm and jaw set. He met John's eyes again. "I _also_ confess," he said, voice ringing loudly - and at this Brother James tilted his head in a mild surprise that he quickly hid, "to witchcraft of the most obscene and perverse kind. In addition to proclaiming my heresies, I have sold my soul to the Devil in exchange for the ability to cast glamours. I killed Louise Mortimer. I offered her unborn babe to my devil and I summoned my familiar, a wolf, to devour her corpse. Not sated, I then attacked Clara Colmer in the guise of my familiar, using a glamour. Henry Knight and Beryl Stapleton are innocent victims of my bewitchment. I bewitched Henry Knight and made him confess to the crime in my stead. I bewitched Beryl Stapleton and put her under my thrall, forcing her to be my accomplice. I put words in her mouth, to compel her to falsely confess to the Inquisition. I bewitched this village into believing my falsehoods. I bewitched a good man, John Watson, into supporting my false cause. The Inquisitor discovered this perfidy and has driven away my devil and bound me, forcing me through his righteousness to speak only the truth." He finished and stood, breathing heavily. He looked...desolate.

"No," said John. "No."

"No! It is not true," a heavily accented voice cried, and John saw Angelo to his right, shaking with indignation. Other voices rose too, some in condemnation, some in disbelief.

There was a howl of anger. "You filthy witch!" Nicholas Mortimer bellowed, lunging forward. The guards stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "I'll kill you!" he screamed at Sherlock as he was dragged away by two other men. "I'll kill you!"

"Silence!" Brother James surveyed the assembled crowd with clear enjoyment. "It is true. I thank our blessed Lord that I was able to coax the truth from this sorry creature before a terrible injustice was done. You may release Beryl Stapleton and Henry Knight."

Another uproar, one that Brother James did not seek to quell. Instead he nodded at Moran and the Captain led Sherlock down the stairs of the church, a path cleared for them by the other guard.

"Sherlock!" John wrenched himself away from Morris, but the guard gripped his handcuffs and yanked him back.

"Stay put, Watson," he growled, his speech still ruined by his damaged nose, and marched off with his fellows. John did not stay put. Heart pounding, sweating with fear for Sherlock, he shouldered his way through the crowd as quickly as he could, only to see Sherlock roughly bundled into a cart. It had obviously been requisitioned from one of the villagers and was attached to the back of the carriage. One of the guards hopped up next to him.

"Sherlock!" he shouted again and this time the other man heard him. John managed to break through the crowd and found himself shoved up against the side of the cart. "Sherlock!" he gasped, looking up at his friend, his lover. "What's going on? What are you doing?"

Sherlock crouched down at the edge of the cart, blue eyes meeting John's squarely. He attempted a semblance of a smile. "I'm sorry, John."

"What?" John licked his lips, his mouth dry.

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "Everything I confessed, it's all true."

"Why are you saying this?"

Sherlock's eyes were suspiciously bright as he answered, his voice rougher than usual. "The Inquisitor was right all along. I'm a heretic, a witch. I bewitched the village and I bewitched you. I want you to tell Harriet, Molly, Henry, and Beryl - in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I was the Beast. All my observations, all my deductions - all lies-"

"Shut up, Sherlock, shut up. When we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my past, right? You explained how you knew. That wasn't magic, that was _you."_

He shook his head; his bottom lip trembled and he pressed it into a taut line. "Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock gasped a laugh and a tear slid down his cheek. He gazed at John. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick. Second sight, fortune-telling-"

John swallowed hard, a prickle behind his eyes. He pressed the side of his face against the rough wood of the cart. "No. All right, stop it now. Tell them you were just saying that to save Beryl and Henry-"

Sherlock stretched his bound hands towards John, reaching through the slats of the cart with his fingers. "I bewitched you, John. Everything we did. I bewitched you."

John pressed his cheekbone against Sherlock's outstretched fingers. "No. No. I'll never believe that." His throat tightened and he swallowed again.

"John, _please."_

He rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's fingers. "Come on, Sherlock, stop this." He clenched his fists, frustrated intolerably by his bonds, his inability to _do_ anything. "I'll follow you, free you when they stop for the night."

"John, no!"

He pulled back, staring up at him. "Why not? You can't think I'd just-"

Sherlock's fingers clutched at the cart, white at the knuckles. "John, no. Stay here. I need you to do this for me."

"Sherlock." His voice was wrong, thick. His heart pounded with desperate urgency.

"Please, will you do this for me?"

John swallowed. The cart gave a sudden jerk and he stumbled back from it as it lurched into motion. "Sherlock?" His chest and stomach hurt, _ached_. His impotency gnawed at him.

Sherlock reached out his bound hands. "Goodbye John."

"No. Don't."

Sherlock lowered his hands and sat back in the cart, arms looped around his knees, face averted. The guard stood next to him, stony-faced.

"No. _Sherlock!" _John ran after him, bound arms slowing him. He stumbled to a clumsy halt, gasping in painful breaths, eyes blurring. He stood, helpless, watching as the cart, the horses, the carriage rumbled out of the village gates and out of his life.

His legs gave out and he sank to the ground. Heaving in agonised breaths, he lowered his head to his knees and there he stayed.

After some time, he felt a warm hand on his back. "Master Watson?" a familiar, Venetian voice said.

John wiped his face on his hose and looked up at Angelo, who smiled down at him sadly. "He only confessed to save us, you know," John told him.

Angelo sighed. "I know. Don't worry about Brother Sherlock; I'm sure he'll think of something. He's very clever, you know."

John huffed a pained laugh. "I know." He couldn't shake the dread he felt.

"Come, Master Watson, we'll get those chains off you."

Mortimer had to cut him loose, the Inquisitor's guards having taken their keys with them. First he had to wait while Beryl and Henry were freed; Henry's manservant took him home, while Beryl was delivered into the arms of her brother.

Mortimer looked at John darkly as it came to his turn, but broke the latch on his chains anyway.

"Sherlock didn't do it," John said tightly, rubbing his wrists. "He only confessed to save Beryl and Henry. Me. Molly Hooper. Anyone else the Inquisitor decided to kill. If you want vengeance against the real killer, it was Robert Frankland."

Mortimer looked at him sharply. "What did you say?" he demanded, and John quickly told him all the evidence Sherlock had gathered against Frankland.

As John delivered the last of the deductions Sherlock had made, Mortimer's grim expression became thunderous. Without a word, he set off across the common, towards Frankland's house.

"Ave Maria!" cried Angelo. "I'll fetch Lestrade. Follow him, Master Watson!"

John did, breathless and aching from his various injuries but still on Mortimer's heels as he reached Frankland's house and hammered on the door. There was no response so the smith took his hammer and broke the fancy latch on the door. John followed him inside.

"Mortimer- " he began, words of restraint coming automatically.

"What?" snarled the blacksmith, pausing in his stride to glare at him.

John found his mouth empty, unable to say a word to spare Frankland. But then he looked at Mortimer's lined face, the misery in his eyes. It would be a crime if the man hanged for murdering the bastard who killed his daughter. "Leave him for Lestrade."

Mortimer's dark eyes flicked away and then he was pounding up the stairs to the sleeping area of the house. John took another breath and followed after him.

There was a clang as Mortimer dropped his hammer. John came around the corner and saw what he saw: Frankland was dead, his throat slit, his bed soaked in blood.

Mortimer and John exchanged glances. John turned around and walked out of the house. Lestrade and Dimmock nearly bowled him over.

"Frankland was already dead," said John. "Been dead for hours."

And ignoring their calls, he kept walking, back to the bakery, back to pull Mistress Hudson into his arms and tell her Sherlock had gone, and to weep on her shoulder.

* * *

In the absence of any evidence and in the presence of a convenient scapegoat, Frankland's murder was blamed on Sherlock. Despite what John believed about Sherlock's heresy and witchcraft charge, part of him wondered if mayhap the friar had killed Frankland, knowing it was the only way the man would be brought to justice.

The village was split along two lines: those who believed Sherlock had been the Beast and the few who believed he'd sacrificed himself to protect them all from the Inquisitor. Henry Knight was one who believed Sherlock had delivered him and he and Mortimer made their thoughts known on the identity of the true culprit; they both refused to attend Frankland's funeral, along with Beryl Stapleton and her brother. Father Anderson, though, made it his business to hold Sherlock up as a regular object lesson in his homilies. Sally Donovan went out of her way to tell John she had told him so. The look John had given her had silenced her and she had not broached the subject again.

For his part, John never stopped believing in Sherlock's innocence and he wasn't afraid to say so. This refusal to allow idle gossip to go unchecked added to the suspicion about his relationship with Brother Sherlock. It meant he made few new friends and lost a number of old ones as well. Sarah quietly ended their acquaintance and, given the rumours, John couldn't bring himself to blame her. Given his own feelings, he couldn't bring himself to protest, either. William Murray, a close friend to Frankland, became a bit funny towards John and there was no longer work for him at the mill.

In the dark secrecy of the night, he allowed himself to wonder why it had to be Sherlock. Why brilliant, incandescent Sherlock and not Henry Knight, not Beryl Stapleton? Why not_ him?_ If he'd just _thought,_ he could have confessed instead of Sherlock, _he_ could have saved everyone...saved Sherlock. If he'd woken up in time. If he'd jumped up on the church step and proclaimed himself guilty. If he'd made Sherlock leave with him that night. If he'd insisted. If. If. If.

Molly returned within a few weeks but Harriet did not. Molly said she'd gone on to the South to start a new life, promising to send word when she was settled. John felt trepidation for his sister but could understand her need to leave Baskerville, the source of so much horror and grief. Molly also firmly believed in Sherlock's innocence but was more circumspect in her support. John couldn't blame her either.

Part of him held out hope. It didn't help that every time he saw Angelo or Rosa they would wink at him and say something about Sherlock finding a way. Soon enough, though, the village moved on and, aside from Sherlock's close friends, no-one gave the lanky grey-robed friar who'd once graced their community another thought.

John spent the winter with Mistress Hudson. He earnt some of his keep helping in the bakery but John was aware that he was there out of the goodness of Mistress Hudson's heart and not for the small amount of work he performed. He visited Harriet's cottage nearly daily to feed the animals and muck out their pens. He carted firewood to market every week and sold enough to give Mistress Hudson a few more pennies and buy himself the odd essential item.

Four months after the Baskerville Inquisition, just as the spring planting was beginning, Magistrate Lestrade paid them a visit. His brow was drawn and his expression severe. He was holding a letter.

"Master Watson, Mistress Hudson," he said. "I took the liberty of sending to Rome, to make enquiries about the fate of Brother Sherlock. I received a reply today. I'm sorry, it's not good news."

John felt his stomach drop. "What did you hear?"

Lestrade cleared his throat and referred to the letter. "Brother Sherlock Holmes of the Franciscan Order, lately based in Baskerville, was convicted of heresy and witchcraft and sentenced to death. He was burnt at the stake."

"His brother-" John distantly heard himself say. "Couldn't he-"

Lestrade consulted the letter. "His, ah, Brother Sherlock had already been tried once by the Inquisition, so he was treated as a relapsed heretic. His Eminence was unable to intercede for him again."

"But are you sure it was Sherlock - maybe it was a mistake-"

"John," said Lestrade gently. "It was Cardinal Holmes himself who responded to my inquiry. I suppose he felt responsible..."

Cardinal...Oh. Sherlock's own brother had seen him die. John saw flames and smoke, a pale, ghostly face, the same desolate expression Sherlock had worn as he was taken away. He saw long, elegant hands, mangled in torture. A body he'd held and worshipped in the dark, smooth and lean and marred with cruel branding scars, crudely bound to a stake. That same body he'd touched and cherished, broken and wounded. Dark curls and Sherlock's beautiful face clouded by smoke and twisted in pain. Unearthly eyes shut tight in agony... The stench of burning flesh. Vomit rose in his throat. Had Sherlock screamed?

He managed to force out some words, something, nothing, before he turned around and stumbled upstairs to the little room above the bakery.

He sat on the bed and stared unseeing into the corner where Sherlock's satchel still remained, the pieces of his _viola di braccio _where he'd laid them in their case. All waiting.

Stay here, Sherlock had said.

John curled up on the bed. He stayed there for a long time.

Endnote: As always, I mutilate Ariane DeVere's excellent transcripts of the show, available on LJ. 2 chapters to go! xo


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note:** Thanks as always to my marvellous betas: Aranel Parmadil, Tsylvestris and Mid0Nz, with moral support from Mojoflower - your editing, proof reading and wonderful suggestions and questions push me to do better have improved this story ten-fold. All mistakes of course are my own due to reasons. Thank you as well to everyone who left feedback and comments, it makes my day!

I meant to have this up earlier but some insightful questions from my betas saw me add another 2000 words, so here, an extra 1000 words per day in compensation. We're drawing to a close, there is only an epilogue to go after this.

**Warnings:** Internalised homophobia. Violence. Character deaths.

* * *

**Chapter 12:** _But it must also be remarked that sometimes persons only think they are molested by an Incubus when they are not so actually; and this is more apt to be the case with women than with men, for they are more timid and liable to imagine extraordinary things. (Malleus Maleficarum Part II, Question II, Chapter I)_

Life did, of course, go on.

After Lestrade's news, John moved to the woodcutter's cottage. He couldn't stay in the little room at the bakery, not with all the memories of Sherlock haunting him at every turn, not with Mistress Hudson's grief laden on top of his own. He couldn't stay in the village, not with the snide comments from those who believed Sherlock to be guilty, now with the suspicious glances from those who remembered his friendship with Sherlock and his role in the Baskerville Inquisition, not with Angelo and Rosa's sorrowful faces.

John had taken care of the cottage and tended the animals through the winter. Lestrade had confirmed that he was welcome to it: Clara had left it to Harriet in her will and as Harriet was missing, John was her heir. There was no other claimant, Mother Colmer, tough and spirited as she was, had not survived the winter: her sons dead, her daughters-in-law dead or fled, grandchild murdered, she gave up on the world and a chill on her lungs carried her off.

John set the woodcutter's cottage to rights. He took over chopping and selling firewood and supplemented his living with what he could raise or grow for himself. He became something of a recluse, avoiding the village except on market days, but began to make a life for himself- different to what he'd planned, but a life nonetheless. It was a life of days filled with hard, relentless labour and nights spent in the blessed oblivion of exhausted sleep. If he dreamed, the nightmares didn't wake him and he couldn't remember them in the morning. He forced his emotions away where they couldn't hurt anymore but sometimes, on those few nights when sleep did not come quickly enough, he found himself thinking of sharp features and odd eyes, of rapid speech and wild delight, of panted breaths and excitement. He would turn over, eyes shut tight, and in the darkness remember fumbling touches and soft lips, scars under his fingertips and skin under his lips. Then he'd remember that last, terrible glimpse, as Sherlock turned his face away, and he would ache until sleep finally claimed him.

Slowly John began to adjust. The days didn't seem so long and he began to find small happinesses, little moments of contentment and peace.

In the summer, when the village was caught up in the busy work of haymaking, a tinker, Old Morstan, came to the village. He brought his daughter, Mary, a lass with fine, laughing eyes and a bright smile. That market day they set up shop beside John's wood cart and the tinker's daughter perched herself on John's wood pile and swung her legs as she teased him into talking to her.

It was a novelty, to be looked upon without pity or suspicion, as simply a man, and, despite the quiet ache of his grief, John found himself captivated by her fine eyes and winning smile. She was an outsider like himself, had seen more of the world than the stout oaken walls of the village. She made him laugh with her clever observations of the other villagers and they chatted until long after the other stalls had closed and her father had begun some of the work he had taken on during the day.

John had ruefully excused himself and started home. He shook his head again in amusement over one of Mary's arch comments and it occurred to him how very lonely he had become.

It was only as he opened the door to the quiet little cottage that realised he had not thought of Sherlock all afternoon.

He had reason to return to the village the next day. This time to visit Mistress Hudson. He happened to have a pan and a kettle that needed mending so he took them to the tinker on his way. He spent far too long talking to Mary again, and then, on his way home, he called on her again.

She walked him a little ways back to the woodcutter's cottage and for the first time since Sherlock, he found himself caught by blue eyes and Cupid's bow lips. He found himself thinking thoughts that weren't quite pure.

John started walking out with Mary. She was good company and very easy on the eye. He was reminded of his dalliance with Sarah, the idle dreams he'd entertained, of a respectable, ordinary life with a wife and a family. A helpmeet, someone with whom to while away the long evenings, someone uncomplicated, someone with whom it would be safe to share his heart.

Mary seemed to find him interesting and her attention was flattering. John found himself trying on the charm, flirting outrageously. He wondered, as she tucked her hand in his arm, if marriage was something he might want after all, something he might have. She was the one to kiss him, and when a well-meaning busybody warned her off him, she slipped into his bed instead. She was straightforward in her desire but nervous, and John coaxed her into dimpled giggles and rosy blushes as he took her virginity. It was a simple comfort, the proximity of another, an intimate touch, the satisfaction of carnal pleasures, but it also awakened in John a need to protect and cherish. He caught himself clutching at this happiness with a desperate longing.

Although Mary had no dowry to speak of, before her father had left the village, John had married her all the same.

By Lammastide, when the villagers began the first wheat harvest, it was clear that Mary was with child. John felt a deep ache inside his heart, as if it couldn't hold everything he had come to cherish, as if everything he dreaded would break him. Mary was good and kind and held him as the rough and ragged fears came tumbling out. He didn't dare tell her of Sherlock but whispered of loss and longing, and if she thought he meant another lass, in another time, then so be it. With her gentle touch and soft words supporting him, he bundled up his fears and put them aside in a corner with a broken _viola di braccio_ and the knowledge of how a crucifix scar felt in the dark.

One day, when the midwife, Molly, had finished visiting Mary, John walked her back to the path from the cottage. John wasn't the only one in the village for whom life had carried on: Henry Knight had married Beryl Stapleton, their shared ordeal bringing them together, he claiming her bastard child as his own; and Magistrate Lestrade had taken Molly to wife not long after her return. She too was big with child now.

"It's good to see you so happy, John," Molly said, smiling at him.

He smiled back, he had nothing to say to that, but was surprised to realise this was true; he was happy. That another had noticed this change startled him for a moment. He felt guilty - after all it was barely a year since Sherlock's death, Harriet's departure. Mary, their child, and all, it felt disloyal to appear happy.

Molly looked at him quizzically. "Have you received word from Harriet?" she asked.

John had not. Molly nodded. "She can't ever come back, you know?" Molly had not spoken of Harriet since she first returned, but then John had not really spoken to Molly. She had reminded him too much of the Inquisition, of imprisonment, of Sherlock. His heart had been too raw to cope with that.

"I suppose it is too hard, missing Clara-" He sometimes wondered how his sister fared and if he would ever see her again. He thought she would like Mary, and he thought every now and then of sharing the good news of their child with his sister.

Molly bit her lip. "John," she said, "Sherlock didn't kill Frankland. Harriet did."

John stared at her disbelieving, his heart pounding. He shook his head, then frowned and looked away, considering it. Harriet? She was strong and she was brave. Frankland had killed Clara...the love of her life. John swallowed, it was fitting.

"I didn't know at the time, or maybe I didn't want to know," Molly continued. "She said she had some business to attend to, before we left. She was only gone a short time while I waited at the gate. When I returned to the village and heard what happened to Frankland, I knew what she had done."

John exhaled. He nodded, still processing the unexpected news. "Thank you for telling me. So it wasn't Sherlock after all...I had wondered..."

She squeezed his hand. "No." She looked at him closely, with a kindness that made John feel undeserving. "I know- John, Brother Sherlock was a very good man, and he'd have wanted you to be happy. He'd be glad you're happy. You don't...you needn't keep feeling sad."

He looked away and had nothing to say to that either.

Martinmas came and went and if John found himself more twitchy, more prone to fits of silence, if he held Mary tighter at night and was loathe to leave her during the day, then Mary did not comment. John did, however, find her watching him with her fine eyes when she thought he wasn't looking. With a start he wondered what she had been told, if she had pieced his words and the gossip together, and if she _knew_. He did his best to shake off the dark, anxious thoughts that plagued him, to offer her a cheery countenance.

"Mary, my love," he said and meant it.

Winter came, cold and unforgiving. John had prepared the cottage as best he could, laid in piles of firewood, had food stored away and the animals stowed in the barn safe and sound. Still it was cold and though John stuffed the cracks in the woodcutter's cottage and kept the fire blazing, Mary, who usually wintered in the south, by the sea, felt the cold bitterly. With child she was weak, already suffering with morning sickness and susceptible to ailments. She caught a chill that went deep and rattling into her chest.

Mary did not survive the winter; by the third week of Advent she was gone.

John broke a little. This second pain, so close to the first, was too much to bear. He curled in on himself, lost in guilt and sorrow, crushed and wounded. Some days later he resurfaced to find Mistress Hudson had been caring for him and the cottage, just as she had cared for Harriet in her bereavement. He didn't even recall Mary's funeral, perhaps he'd been there. Christmas had already passed. He pulled on his cloak and walked into the snow, walked through the woods along Mary's favourite path, to her favourite place, small meadow, cold and desolate under a blanket of snow.

He stood there for a long while.

He returned to the cottage, hung up his cloak and squeezed Mistress Hudson's hand.

"Oh, John," was all she said.

He shut this pain away too, next to an older one, in a place soundly locked, where they wouldn't make him ache just to breathe. Every now and then he'd take both out and look at them just to know they still mattered. He drove his body to exhaustion during the day to chase the dreams away at night.

He lived. One day after the other.

That year passed, heavy and slow now, and winter came again, prowling around the cottage, seeking its way in. John chinked the cottage walls afresh and kept a fire blazing, Mary's quilt folded neatly on her chair. He stopped going into the village once the snow arrived and settled down to hibernate, with old thoughts, old loves, to keep him company.

One night, a week before Christmas, John had finished his solitary supper and settled down before the fire, a mug of murrey in his hands, stockinged feet stretched towards the glowing coals, when there was a urgent knocking at his door. He was suddenly wrenched back two years to another night in this cottage, to another knock, to blood on the ground, wind in the trees and a wolf at the door. He swallowed, disconcerted for the first time since he'd moved in. He stood and approached the door.

"Who's there?" he called, hand on the latch string.

There was a scratching, a rustling. The wind howled about the cottage.

Another knock.

"Who's there?" John called, louder than before.

"John! It's me! Sherlock! Let me in!"

He froze. The hair on the back of his neck rose and ice trickled down his spine. Heart thudding, he listened.

"Who?" His voice cracked.

There was a thud against the door. "Sherlock! Let me in!' It was _that_ voice. The voice of a dead man.

Somewhere out in the woods a wolf howled. This was not unusual and John had learned long ago to pay them no mind. Tonight, though, with a dead man at his door, the sound made him shudder.

His mouth was dry, and he stood stock still for a long moment. A twig crackled on the fire and it made him start.

Sherlock's voice, in the dark of the night. A scratching and knocking at the door. John had never been one for superstition but he knew what he knew and there was only one reason a dead man's voice would be calling for him in the night.

"John?" said the voice, a beautiful baritone. "Let me in. Please." _Please._ _I want you to,_ he remembered. _Please. _

The voice of his dead lover.

So. The Devil had finally come for him, had he? An Incubus, wearing the face of a man he'd lain with unnaturally. Something fierce, something that he'd tried to forget for two years, blazed to life inside John and he leaned his forehead against the door.

Whatever was outside pounded on his door again. "John!"

That fierce, pent-up thing inside John broke loose and he flung the door open. Very well. If he was to die this night, if he was to be taken by an Incubus - he would have this. He. Would. Have. This.

He wrenched the creature inside. Saw dark curls under a hood, a well remembered nose, sharp cheekbones, and those unearthly eyes. He slammed the door and threw the Incubus back against it.

"I will have this," he gasped and crushed their mouths together. Long fingers (God, those fingers) clutched at him and soft lips parted under his, opening, taking him in. The creature groaned and slim hips canted against his, whiskers rasping against John's chin; undeniably male in form, this being. _Sherlock, _his credulous mind lied to him. John whimpered and thrust back, urgent and wanton. The creature's tongue brushed against his own, tipping John's head back as he met his kiss with equal vigour. John pushed aside a woollen cloak and gripped the devil's hip. He drew him closer, seeking contact, touch as he kissed plump, familiar lips...

Cloak..._cloak?_ Sherlock never wore a cloak, nor overgown...The Incubus's lips were cold, chapped from the bitter weather, his body shivering against John's. His nose was a bit damp, actually.

John pulled back sharply. "You're real," he gasped.

Ethereal blue eyes, darkened and glazed, blinked and then cleared. "Yes," he said, that dear, _dear_ wrinkle creasing his nose as his brow furrowed.

John's face couldn't contain itself any longer and split into a stupid, huge grin. "You're _real!_"

"Of c-course I'm real," he said, teeth starting to chatter now he was in the warmth. "What d-did you think, that I was s-some s-sort of g-ghost?"

John began to giggle. "Um, no, not- an Incubus, actually."

Sherlock blinked and then, lips twitching into a smirk, exhaled a small laugh. "So you d-decided to k-kiss me?"

John blushed and laughed as well, shaking his head in wonder as he gazed at the well-remembered features. Sudden awe overwhelmed him and he took a step back, crossing himself, aghast. "You're...here, you're alive...risen...I...what are you...a saint, an angel? Holy Mother - I _groped_ you, I-" He blanched and crossed himself again. "Forgive me- I-"

Sherlock barked a laugh. "Hardly J-John. I never d-died in the first p-place."

John gaped. "How-"

"M-mycroft-" In the absence of John pressed against him, Sherlock, shivering, had wrapped his arms around his middle to keep warm. His lips were blue. John was struck with dismay by his thoughtlessness.

"Fuck - sorry - you're freezing." He pulled Sherlock over to the fire, thrust the abandoned mug of murrey into his hands, and dove into his bedroom to fetch a blanket and cloth to use as a towel. Sherlock had already removed his cloak, wet from the snow, and hung it on the hooks by the door when John returned. He sat on one of the chairs and gingerly started pulling off his boots. John knelt and quickly removed the sodden footwear and dried Sherlock's feet roughly with the towel. Cold, too cold. He needed to warm up...would catch a chill. He surveyed Sherlock's overgown- no longer the sturdy grey wool of a Franciscan but a finer dark blue; it too was sopping at the edges.

"Up," he said. "Everything off. You're drenched." He pulled Sherlock to his feet and set about quickly stripping him, unbuckling his belt, pulling off his overgown, and unlacing his shirt. With shaking limbs Sherlock tugged the soft linen over his head. For a moment John stared, caught by the expanse of pale, lean torso, the twin brands marring otherwise perfect skin. He cleared his throat and turned to drape the wet garments over a chair by the fire while Sherlock shed his breeches and hose. He stood shivering as John briskly dried his upper body with a towel then knelt and rubbed at long legs, the leg hair wet and plastered to his shins and thighs. John looked up and found himself at eye-level with Sherlock's prick, bobbing half-hard in front of his nose. Blushing, John stood quickly and found himself caught in another kiss, long fingers cupping his cheeks. He drew back with a laugh.

"Keep that thought," he said, wrapping the blanket around Sherlock's bare shoulders. He ran back into the bedroom, stripped the bed of all its covers and carried them into the main room, depositing them on the floor before the hearth.

"Here," he said taking Sherlock's hand. "Come." And he drew him down to the nest in front of the fire. He pulled off his own belt and overgown, tossing them to one side, before lying down next to Sherlock, pulling a blanket atop them both in an effort to warm him more quickly. He chafed Sherlock's upper arm and pressed his body closer to share heat, then caught up lean hands, rubbing them between his own and blowing on them to warm fingers blue with cold. Sherlock shivered beside him, pressing closer, cold toes and knees making John shiver as well.

Sherlock stole back his hands and caught John's mouth again, long, icy fingers cupping his cheeks, and for a moment John sank into the kiss. His body sang, bright with promise; he thought he'd never have this again. At last, however, he pulled back, the need to know overcoming the need to touch.

"How did you escape?" he asked. "Lestrade was told that you- that you were executed."

Sherlock tucked his hands between them to warm. "Technically, I was. Legally I am dead; the Franciscan, Sherlock Holmes, was burnt at the stake."

John caught his icy hands again, chafing them and bringing them to his lips. He glanced up into pale blue eyes. "What happened?"

"Someone was burnt that day, it just wasn't me. I was smuggled out of prison thanks to my brother's connections. Incidentally, around the same time our mutual acquaintance James Moriarty simply...vanished. A shame, he had such a promising career." One corner of Sherlock's lips quirked up in a malicious smirk.

John stared at him for a long moment then snorted. "Can't say I'm sorry to hear that. But...how-"

Sherlock took back his hands and drew John's fingers to his lips. "I was able to get a letter to my brother before my arrival in Rome. Molly Hooper took it with her when she fled Baskerville. Thank the Lord she can read. Mycroft couldn't just make this accusation go away, I'd been accused of heresy once already. There were too many witnesses to my confession and Moriarty made sure it was high-profile the moment we reached Rome. But Mycroft had enough advance warning to organise a show-trial with hand-picked judges. I confessed and was duly sentenced to death. The evidence against me was damning, after all - a heretical treatise written in the hand of a recanted heretic? A verbal confession in front of a village full of witnesses, one of whom, the local priest, had been willing to provide a written testimony?"

John recalled anew the bitter unfairness of Sherlock's 'confession'. Moran ransacking their room for the parchment with Sherlock's painstaking translation; the translation he'd done for Abbess Irene, the one he had been so proud of, discovering the key to decoding the text of a heretical Franciscan sect. Instead it had been a trick on the part of Abbess Irene to place a damning document in his hands and give him over to the Inquisition.

John swallowed and traced Sherlock's bottom lip with two fingertips. "Show-trial...then you weren't tortured?"

Sherlock nipped at his fingers. "No. Besides, I willingly named my accomplices in heresy - the ones I'd seen mentioned in my translation."

John rubbed a thumb over the stubble of his chin. "So...were they able to escape?" The thought of others suffering the fate intended for Sherlock, for Beryl, for Henry made him tense.

"They were heretics, John, actual heretics." Sherlock stroked no-longer-so-icy fingertips along his jaw. "But rest assured, no-one else died. Unfortunately for the Inquisitors, all the fellow heretics I named were already deceased. Mycroft knew about the translation already, I'd written to him before leaving Belgravia; what I hadn't told Abbess Irene was that the piece was a hundred years old, every person named long since departed."

John relaxed. "And you escaped," he prompted.

"Then Mycroft's people made Brother James disappear and it was his body at the stake that day, not mine. Apparently he made quite a scene but it was hard to understand what he was saying without a tongue."

John shuddered and then decided he didn't feel the least bit sorry.

"But...where have you been? How long did the trial take? You've been gone for two years." John drew back searching his face.

Sherlock caught John's hand and bent his lips to each fingertip. "John, don't."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "It took nearly two months to reach Rome, given the weather, then a month for the trial. I had to go into hiding for three months at my brother's insistence, and then I was finally free to travel. I came to find you..." Sherlock frowned at John's fingers and then kissed them all again. "When I got to Lauriston, I discovered that you had married. There seemed little point in revealing myself after all."

John froze. Sherlock too stilled beside him. Waiting.

He drew his hand away. "There would have been a point - to me, Sherlock. To know you weren't dead. There would have been a point."

Sherlock caught it again. "And have you keep a secret from your wife? Or tell her, perhaps, and put her at risk with that knowledge? Put me at risk? I knew not if I could trust her, nor if knowledge of my survival would put you in danger. I chose not to reveal myself."

John closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of maybes - he'd blamed himself long ago for Mary's death; as much as he would not give up the short, precious time he'd had with her...to not have had her die...if Sherlock had returned a month sooner...and then there was nagging guilt that he had betrayed Sherlock too, had found another so quickly...

"I thought you dead," he said ineffectually.

Sherlock bent his forehead to John's. "I know. I don't blame you."

"Why didn't you send a message? Earlier? Tell me you were safe?"

"A letter isn't secure, John, not if one doesn't have encryptions in place and the necessary ciphers to decode them. It passes through too many hands, and who would have received your letter for you? Read it to you? Lestrade? Even if I'd sent it to Molly Hooper, who would handle the letter between myself and her? I could not risk it being waylaid or the contents being made known about the village. Father Anderson would love to reveal my secret to the wrong people."

John looked down at their joined hands, not for the first time embarrassed by his illiteracy. "All right." He was silent for a long moment before he could trust himself to speak. "I am glad you are here. I am..." He took a breath. "_Beyond_ happy, I still can't really believe- You're alive. You're here and alive and...I am sorry that you had to wait, although I won't apologise for Mary- " He frowned, his thoughts, the tightness inside clarifying. "But I'm angry. Angry that you had to disappear in the first place and that you _did_ and you didn't _tell_ me what you were planning, you git...why did you do that? Bloody hell, _I_ could have confessed to bewitching Henry and Beryl, it didn't have to be you-" He swore quietly under his breath.

Sherlock drew back and pinned John with his gaze, intense and serious. "John," he said firmly. "Did you think my brother would have intervened on _your_ behalf? Risked his reputation, his position? He could barely bestir himself for me. And if I'd told you my plan, you would have tried to stop me, would have interfered - I needed to convince James Moriarty to take me to Rome, I had to appeal to his vanity; he needed to believe he had already destroyed me...I couldn't have done that if you had known." He searched John's eyes. "You must believe me, I had no other choice. I couldn't have borne it if you had been at risk. If you had died. I did it for you. For _you, _John."

John exhaled. He licked his lips. He swallowed. "You didn't think that I'd feel the same way? Seeing you taken off to die, hearing from Lestrade that you'd been burnt at the stake? God, Sherlock, do you know how many nights- I couldn't stand knowing that you had suffered like that-" He turned away, jaw clenched as all the pain came flooding back. "I'd hoped, I waited, but then we heard- and, well...I mourned you, didn't I? And I got on with life, as much as anyone can, I mean, you're not the first person I've...cared about...who died...but. What I felt about you...I- You left me so alone." He frowned and swiped at his eyes. Angry too at himself, for letting this all surface again, for letting Sherlock see how much he'd been hurt, for feeling this much about another man. He cleared his throat. "There you have it."

He felt an arm snake about his middle and he felt lips press to his shoulder. "I didn't realise...I didn't think I would be gone so long and when I returned, you had- you seemed happy...without me. I owe you a thousand apologies, John. I didn't realise you had been so affected."

They both lay still, an aching wedge between them now. John's desire had long since dissipated, Sherlock too was flaccid against his thigh.

Sherlock swallowed. "You said, 'what you _felt_ about me'...dare I hope you still feel that, now?"

John's heart pounded so loudly he was certain Sherlock must hear it. "I think I must," he whispered. "Forgive me-"

"Don't," snapped Sherlock in a low, fierce voice. "Don't apologise. I cannot be ashamed of the strength of my feelings for you, do not ask me to condemn you for yours."

John lay frozen, stunned by Sherlock's words. His own guilt felt misplaced now, in the face of Sherlock's admission.

After some moments he cleared his throat, gathering himself together. "And then? Where did you go then?"

Sherlock kissed his cheek, his cheekbone, his temple, a wordless overture. "I went southwards and I ended up in Florence."

John turned back on his side facing towards Sherlock. He smoothed his palm over Sherlock's upper arm. There was a swooping feeling in his chest. "And now? Why are you here now?" He focused on Sherlock's shoulder, quite unable to look at his expression.

Sherlock pressed closer, stroked John's cheek with his knuckle, coaxing him to meet his gaze. Sherlock's blue-green eyes flickered over John's face, cautious, hopeful. "I received word that a very dear friend was alone and...I hoped..." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I must admit your greeting was better than I'd imagined."

John flushed and smiled ruefully, a tingle of warmth igniting in his belly. "Well, then. What _did_ you imagine?" He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's bicep. Anticipation coiled low in his belly.

Sherlock's cupped the side of his face. His gaze flickered to John's lips and up to his eyes again. "I'm dead, John; my vows are null and void. I do not wish to be chaste any longer." He bent forward and brushed his lips against John's.

John's breath caught. Uncanny blue eyes watched him expectantly. Sherlock was naked. He was barely clothed himself. Long limbs slid against his as Sherlock shifted in their nest of bedclothes. Sherlock's prick was flush against his thigh and John felt it suddenly swell. His own prick, still inside his breeches and pressed up against Sherlock's belly, quickened as well. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was alive. John would sooner cut off his own hand than refuse this.

"That...I can...yes."

Sherlock crushed their mouths together with a groan. They moved against each other, limb and mouth, belly and groin. John gripped his arm, his side, pulled him tighter, closer, half-afraid he'd awaken from a dream if he was foolish enough to let go. Sighs fell from Sherlock's lips, soft moans against his mouth, and there was urgency in the rut of hips against his own. Finally Sherlock pulled back, breathless and flushed, no longer cold to touch, not at all.

He stared at John for a long moment, lips reddened from kisses, a flush upon his cheekbones. Something in his expression had softened. He let his gaze travel down John's chest then flicker back to meet his eyes.

John licked his lips. "Are you warmed enough?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "Perhaps I will need a little more warming." He leaned forward and tugged at the laces of John's shirt. John took the hint and swiftly disrobed. He shifted away to tug down his breeches and hose, turned back to Sherlock, caught his mouth in a sharp kiss as he pulled him close again, settling back beside him under the covers.

With a low hum, Sherlock unsteadily traced the scar on John's shoulder, then the brand below it, above his heart, long since healed, now a purple scar. His hand splayed across John's chest as he bent his head and placed a chaste kiss on each nipple, then drew his mouth down to the left nub.

John inhaled at the rasp of tongue over the sensitive flesh. He ran his hand through Sherlock's curls, still slightly damp from the snow, and realised belatedly that his tonsure had grown out. Wonderingly he smoothed the soft, unruly locks as Sherlock's lips moved back to his battle wound, caressing the mark reverently, and then lowered to do the same with the crucifix over his heart.

Sherlock's skin gleamed gold in the firelight. John smoothed his hand down a lean, lightly muscled forearm, ran knuckles softly over the knobbly ridge of backbone. Sherlock raised his head briefly and nudged the blankets back, baring more of John's body. With his hand he explored his torso, his belly and side, examining with fingers and stroking with thumb. He pushed John gently onto his back and followed the path of his hand with lips and tongue, making John's breath catch and his prick twitch.

John shivered, but not from cold; no, the fire was warm and Sherlock was warm and blankets were tangled around his knees. Sherlock shifted lower still until he was lying halfway across John's left leg, and he paused in his attentions to raise his head, just _looking _up at him. John's heart clenched and he reached out, for a kiss or just to touch to know he was real. Sherlock inhaled sharply. His eyes gleamed wickedly and he bent his head to John's manhood.

John gave a strangled cry as Sherlock's lips closed about his prick. He fell back onto the blankets, all aquiver. The tingling, expectant pleasure of gentle touch and caress now changed, building, narrowing to Sherlock's lips and the wet heat of his mouth rising and falling along his length - _his tongue...Oh Holy-_

"Sherlock," he groaned. "Yes, please...yes..." He spread his legs wider, his world reduced to warm, wet friction, an obscenely inquisitive tongue, and darkened eyes raised to meet his. If this was sinful, John could not find it in himself to care. He heard a sound escape from his lips but it couldn't be his, it was too broken. His fingers slid compulsively through dark curls, twisted and released. Sherlock was here, on his knees before him, worshipping his body, causing him such sweet agonies. It was almost too much to bear. A litany of curses and endearments tumbled from his mouth. "_Beautiful, fuck, oh my sweet, perfect, yes-_" And Sherlock moaned against his prick and his hips rocked, rubbing his own hardness against John's shin.

John's pleasure curled, intense and demanding, up from his groin, into his belly, tightening across his chest; he was nothing now, nothing except for urgent thrusts, the exquisite wet slip and pull. He clutched at Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm - Sherlock, please-_OH!" _And then he shattered, broke apart at hips and heart and limbs. There was brightness behind his eyes, consuming pleasure thundering through him. "Oh God! Sherlock! _Oh_-"

He may have passed out. Perhaps. Briefly. He opened his eyes, heart racing, breathless and spent, and grasped for Sherlock, pulling him up, closer, kissing his mouth, kissing away the taste of himself on Sherlock's tongue and reaching down to find quivering, heated flesh, urgent against his hand. He pushed him back, despite clinging hands and feverish kisses, and bent his own head, parted his own lips- Sherlock's prick was thick and warm in his mouth, a solidity that sent a tentative thrill straight to the pit of his belly, this real and tangible expression of Sherlock's desire, evidence that he too shared John's overwhelming need. He tongued the foreskin, suckled on the thick head until Sherlock groaned and began to buck up into his mouth.

After a few choking mouthfuls, John held still and gripped the base of Sherlock's prick with his hand to lessen the depth of each urgent thrust, his mouth open and willing. He let the head of Sherlock's prick slide against his tongue, trying to keep his teeth from scraping the sensitive skin, letting him fuck his mouth. Sherlock clutched at his free hand desperately and John moaned at the lustful, needy sounds coming from the other man, deep and ragged, interspersed with pleas and his own name broken on Sherlock's tongue. He raised his eyes and saw Sherlock gazing down at him, adoration, admiration written on his expression as if he, John, were something magnificent and bright.

And then Sherlock grabbed at his hand, clutched at his hair, thrust up hard into his mouth and held, frozen, as his seed, hot and bitter, pulsed into John's mouth. He swallowed reflexively and sucked as he withdrew, swallowing again and then wiping at his mouth with his wrist as he sat back on his heels. And then Sherlock's mouth was on his, Sherlock's hands were caressing him, soothing him, Sherlock's body was trembling and shaking tight against his. John lowered them both gently onto the nest and tugged up the blankets about them. They lay there for a long while, kissing and touching, a fierce, wondering delight seated in John's chest. This beautiful creature, this brilliant man, was here - alive and with him now.

Finally he drew back and chuckled as Sherlock chased another kiss. He gave him a chaste one and then set his fingertips on those plump, delightful lips.

"A break, just a short one," he murmured.

Sherlock pouted but then nipped at his fingertips and conceded, laying his head on the blankets next to John's.

"How long...how long can I have you for?" John asked, a sudden chill washing over him at the thought of Sherlock's eventual departure. "How long can you stay?"

Sherlock frowned and then his expression changed, now hesitant. "I can't stay long," he said. "I will be recognised. Mistress Hudson already knows I'm here; I visited her first, seeking you." He bit his lip. "John...Come to Florence with me."

"Florence?"

"Yes. I have a small business there, I provide information, advice. I find lost things and uncover secrets. I help when the authorities cannot, which is often."

John laughed. "Perfect. That's um, perfect. For you."

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. "I find I have need of a colleague," he said tentatively. "Someone strong, hardy. Not afraid of danger." He picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "Used to blood and serious injuries." His gaze flickered up to John and away again, lips twitching into a smile. "Perhaps a former soldier. Someone who knows his way around a staff or a dagger. Who owns a large axe mayhap?"

John felt a glow deep inside. "I do have a very big axe." He smiled, a wide, happy grin and Sherlock broke into one in return. He kissed John swiftly.

"You will?"

John ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "Um, yes. Yes, I will." He couldn't stop grinning.

"There are others like us in Florence_, _John, _sodomita, ratione sexus; _in fact, so many that the officials have decided that to inflict the death penalty on every sodomite would wound society. We will be able to live together without question; you would be, to the outside world, my bodyguard, my colleague. In private, I hope, my friend, my...ah...lover."

The mention of sodomites threw John for a moment, but that's what he was now, wasn't he? An unrepentant one, even. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, hope in his eyes, but also a flicker of caution, uncertainty.

He swallowed. "Yes. I...I would like that. All of that." He grinned and stole another kiss. "You've thought this through."

"I've spent many solitary months thinking about the ways my new life would be improved, if only you were with me," replied Sherlock, dipping his mouth to John's jaw, his throat. "_Wishing," _he breathed by his earlobe. "It now seems as if it will be an actual possibility."

"Mm," John replied and did not protest as Sherlock kissed his way back to his mouth.

John pulled him into a close embrace, and Sherlock rested his head on his shoulder, arm about his middle. Soft curls tickled his cheek. Sherlock's skin glowed in the firelight and John studied the way a lock of hair curled about his ear.

"My John," Sherlock murmured and turned his face into the crook of John's neck, sucking on the sensitive juncture there.

John's chest felt tight and his veins hummed. He was melting into Sherlock's very skin and he shifted, trying to get even closer. He felt Sherlock chuckle, a low rumble against his neck that made him shiver.

"My Sherlock," he breathed. He ran his hand over his back, drawing circles and patterns that made the other man shudder and hum in contentment. In his mind's eye he thought of shutting up the cottage, packing up a few belongings, a few precious mementoes. He would visit Mistress Hudson, give her care of his livestock, and then, before nightfall, slip away with Sherlock through the icy woods, travelling in secret until they were well clear of any who might know them. Nights with Sherlock on the road, wrapped together in a single bedroll to keep warm. Shared kisses...more touches. And then Florence and a new life there as Sherlock's companion, friend... lover. He nudged at Sherlock until he lifted his face and then kissed him, slow and deep. He drew back with a sigh and nestled down beside him, staring at those perfect features.

"I do have one other purpose for being here," murmured Sherlock, as if he were reading John's thoughts. He rubbed his thumb lightly against John's ribs.

"Oh?"

"The captain, Sebastian Moran, fled when James Moriarty was taken. So far he has evaded my brother. He was seen in Florence just before my departure and, according to my informant, he knows I'm alive."

"All right," said John, pulse quickening. "So we dispatch him when we return."

Something akin to wonder flickered across Sherlock's face and he smiled an oddly bashful smile. "That's, um, yes-" He took a breath. "He told my informant he was coming here. He was going to...you are his target, vengeance against me, I assume. He seemed to know much about your current circumstances - that is how I discovered you were bereaved. I wonder if perhaps he is in contact with Father Anderson. No matter. We need to leave at first light. You won't be able to tell anyone you are going, we can't risk alerting Moran. No one will look for you until market day, so we will have three days' lead."

"Mistress Hudson - I need to tell her, at least- my animals will need to be fed, sold-"

"Mistress Hudson knows of my plan. If - if she does not see you tomorrow she will know you have left."

John bit his lip and considered this. "And what if I had refused to join you in Florence?"

Something flickered across Sherlock's expression but he quickly hid it away. "I would have waited until Moran attacked you, and then I would have killed him, and then I would have gone. I would not have bothered you again."

John swallowed. He tried on a smile. "Good thing I'm coming with you, then, isn't it?"

Sherlock did not smile but he did kiss John, hard and firm. John pulled back, a horrible thought occurring to him. "Sherlock, we can't leave."

Sherlock blinked at him, breathless and a little glazed-eyed.

"Moran knows I'm out here in the cottage, doesn't he?" John sat up, the full impact hitting him. "So he'll come here first. What happens if he doesn't find me here? He'll go into the village, he'll look for me at Mistress Hudson's- "

Sherlock shook his head and looked pained. "I won't see you in danger."

"You didn't risk your life saving the village only to leave it to the tender mercies of Sebastian Moran," John insisted.

"I risked my life for _you_," Sherlock said with a glare, also sitting up.

John glared back. "God knows what he'll do to Mistress Hudson if he finds I'm not there either."

Sherlock groaned. "Fine! We wait, then, use my alternate plan. Kill him when he comes to kill you."

"We don't need to do this alone," John said, mind racing. "We can ask Lestrade for help-"

Sherlock shook his head. "Lestrade's sister is Anderson's lover; word of the trap will go straight to Moran."

"If we overcome Moran, bind him, take him to Lestrade? Moran has few friends in the village; we let Lestrade hang him from the gibbet."

"No good; he would talk, reveal that I'm alive. It's no use. Either we kill him or we reveal that you've left and we let him track us back to Florence."

"How many days is he behind you?"

"Two, at the most. I passed him in Turin. I made sure he was waylaid."

John met his gaze. "He raped Beryl Stapleton, you know. He's not a very nice man."

"No, he's not."

"I really don't have a problem killing him, should it come to that."

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. "Then we wait. You go into the village tomorrow, tell Mistress Hudson the change in plan. Let yourself be seen. Come back here. Then we wait."

John nodded. He considered Sherlock, tousled and still flushed from their coupling, eyes bright with the excitement of their scheme. His pulse quickened. "And until then?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock's lips quirked into a slow smile. "Until then...it is very cosy here before the fire and we are both very naked. I'm sure we'll find something to amuse ourselves."

John leaned forward and very carefully and very thoroughly showed him one idea.

On a crisp, cloudless night, two nights hence, stars were sprinkled across the sky between the branches of the trees that surrounded the cottage. A waxing moon hung overhead and made the snow-covered ground gleam. The lights in the little cottage glowed through its small window and smoke curled up into the sky. Snow was packed on the roof and in drifts against the yard. All was silent.

A stick cracked somewhere just beyond the outbuildings and then a dark shape moved, darting across the moonlit yard. The shape paused, and had anyone been watching, they would have seen the silhouette of a man. The shade crept to the front of the cottage and was lost in the shadows.

A sudden flare of light revealed the figure of a man holding a lantern, cover removed, into which he dipped a stick, setting it alight. The burning brand was held to the underside of the thatched roof, and then, when that had caught, to the wall of the cottage. Then the man smashed the lantern against the side of the cottage and stepped away from the flames, drawing his sword and facing the door to await its fleeing occupant.

He really wasn't expecting anyone to walk up from behind.

He certainly wasn't expecting anyone with an axe.

John stripped off the man's scabbard and pried the sword hilt from his hand. He and Sherlock threw the body, head lolling unnaturally, directly into the blaze. John smashed the ice on the water barrel, drew some water and cleaned himself quickly, warming cold hands before the blaze of the cottage, the corpse within now blackened beyond recognition. He strapped on the sword belt and sheathed the weapon at his hip, wiping the axe and handing it over to Sherlock. The snow on the roof was sizzling and spitting as the thatch and walls burnt, threatening to douse the flames as it melted.

"Come," said Sherlock. "The fire will be noticed soon."

And fetching up their packs they slipped into the woods, leaving the cottage burning behind.

**Notes:**

_Sodomita, ratione sexus: _ Sodomite by 'reason of sex'. Sodomy covered a range of 'sins' in the middle ages, basically anything that didn't lead to procreation. It had three subdivisions, by reason of species (beastiality), by reason of sex (same sex) and by reason of manner (with the opposite sex but in a manner that excluded procreation).

My reference for this and the attitudes towards sodomy in Florence is:

Homosexuality in the Middle Ages by Warren Johansson and William A. Percy

Other references (and links) can be found on the A03 version.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note:** Thank you as always to my amazing betas Tsylvestris, Aranel Parmadil and Mid0Nz and to Mojoflower for moral support :) Your editing, suggestions and insightful questions have improved this story no end and it's been a joy working with you. xo

Thank you everyone who has left feedback and kudos and followed along as I wrote and the lovely artists who've been inspired to create gorgeous pictures based on this fic, your support and enthusiasm has been very motivating.

Well, here it is, the epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed imagining and writing it. I'm loathe to leave the boys just yet so I'm not discounting a short case fic follow up but not just yet. I do plan on editing up a platonic/bromantic version to share with some of my family so I will post that when it's done as well in case you prefer you case fics without the side of slash. xo mb

**Warnings:** anal sex, fluff, inappropriate use of Latin

* * *

**Chapter 13: Epilogue: A Room with a View.**

John was ensconced on the window seat, the writing exercise he had been set momentarily forgotten upon his lap as once again he found himself transfixed by the view. His chin set upon arms folded on the windowsill, he looked out across half of the city of Florence. It stretched before him across the river Arno, the city glowing terracotta and bronze in the evening light.

The room behind him was not spacious but it held everything they needed: a bed, a table, two chests for their belongings and several shelves for various possessions. There were two chairs, John's draped with the quilt he'd brought from Baskerville, his one memento of Mary aside from a small pouch containing a sprig of lavender and a blue ribbon tucked in the bottom of his trunk. In the six months they'd been in Florence, the room had begun to feel like home.

He heard the opening of the door downstairs, the voice of their landlady raised in greeting, and then footsteps pounding up the stairs. He did not turn as the door opened but allowed familiar anticipation to thrill through him.

"John!" cried Sherlock, pulling open the door to their room and casting sundry possessions upon their small table. "I have solved the mystery of Signora Bonini's missing necklace. Tediously easy but you needn't fear about the rent this month. It only took me two moments to discover the culprit but I stayed the full fifteen _pars minuta prima_ otherwise the old biddy wouldn't have thought me worth paying."

John smiled against his arm. "Fantastic," he said admiringly, but still did not turn.

He heard the clink of a belt, the rustle of fabric, and the soft fall of cloth upon the floor. He grinned as the other man slid in behind him on the window seat, slipping his arm around his waist.

"John," Sherlock purred against his ear. "Did you complete the task I set you?"

John laid his arm over Sherlock's. "Mm, I read it. '_Nunc scio quid sit amor'._"

"And the meaning?" Sherlock's lips grazed his ear.

"'Now I know what cysts are'?" He grinned.

Sherlock bit his earlobe. John yelped and rubbed at it.

"John," Sherlock reprimanded.

"'Now I know what love is'." He smiled, his heart giving a little skip, and he squeezed Sherlock's hand. He'd been touched by the sentimental nature of Sherlock's note but had not been surprised. Somehow Sherlock found it easier to speak of love in the languages he had read, murmuring terms of endearment in Latin, Greek, and French. Classical poems, phrases and declarations, of which John understood the sentiment if not the meaning, fell from his tongue in a rich baritone, whispered, spoken, and murmured against John's ear. _Te amo_ was one of the first phrases he'd looked up when he finally learned all the letters, their sounds, and the trick of how to string them together to make the words he wanted to write. It had meant exactly what he'd thought it had.

"Good," murmured Sherlock, and lifted the front of John's overgown. John settled back against his chest.

"Does this mean I get my reward?" he asked archly.

"Hmm, depends. Where is your response?" Sherlock was an impatient teacher and John grew frustrated and embarrassed trying to grasp difficult concepts under his exasperated eye. Accordingly, once the basics had been mastered, they'd given up on formal study and Sherlock had taken to setting John exercises that served actual purposes: notes as to his whereabouts, tasks for John to achieve, keeping a ledger of their clients with a summary of their cases, and now, apparently, love notes. This method of study suited John's practical nature perfectly.

John passed him the wax tablet, stylus rolling forgotten onto the floor. He held his breath waiting for Sherlock's response.

"_Etiam in morte, superest amor_," read Sherlock, close against his ear. _Love survives even in death._ The phrase had seemed appropriate at the time but now he worried Sherlock would think it overly sentimental, and he felt his face heat. Any qualms he had were silenced as Sherlock bent his lips to the soft spot under his ear and pulled him close, holding him tightly for a long moment.

"_Te amo. Ab imo pectore_," John finished in a low voice, repeating the words he'd painstakingly copied out from the Latin _Dictionarius _and had memorised. _I love you. From the bottom of my heart. _

John felt Sherlock smile against the crook of his neck for a moment before he began to mouth at his throat, curls tickling against John's cheek. The parchment was tossed aside and John sighed as long fingers delved into his breeches and closed about his prick. Kissing warmly at his throat, Sherlock stroked languidly. John felt him, hard against the small of his back through the cloth of his overgown. His hand fell to Sherlock's thigh and discovered with a throb of desire that the other man had shed his hose. He slid his hand higher and encountered bare arse under the soft linen of his shirt-tails. His breath hitched.

Sherlock's hand withdrew suddenly and John whimpered in complaint. There was the clink of a vial being set on the windowsill behind him and the tinkle of a stopper returning to its home before Sherlock's hand returned, dripping with oil. John groaned at the delicious slide of his slick palm against heated flesh. He tilted his head back against Sherlock's shoulder and parted his legs more widely. Sherlock had embraced the physical aspects of their relationship with an enthusiasm that often left John simultaneously flustered and thanking a multitude of saints for his good fortune.

"_Te amo._ _Numquam te amare desistam,_" murmured Sherlock, deep voice curling around John's ear, just as his hand was curled around his prick. _Te amo: _I love you...and..._numquam: _never.._.te amare: _love you._..desistam..._John wasn't sure of that word. Desist? Cease? Oh: _I will never stop loving you_. Oh. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's cheek, a fluttering low in his belly.

Still caressing his cock, Sherlock slid out from behind him and pushed him back on the seat against the window. John grabbed for his arms to pull him in for a kiss and Sherlock took one, languid and thorough. He slipped onto John's lap, butting their cocks together, naked save for his shirt.

John chuckled around Sherlock's mouth and then gasped as he gripped John's prick and raised himself onto his knees, positioning himself over John's eager member. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the slick hardness. John groaned against his mouth as tight heat engulfed his prick, sheathed in Sherlock's body.

"_Deus_," John breathed, all thought and feeling centring on heat and tightness. So good. So bloody good. He slid his hands to Sherlock's hips, squeezed a handful of glorious arse.

Sherlock grinned against his lips and then kissed him slowly as he began to gyrate on his quivering prick. "_Te amo. Johannes meum," _murmured Sherlock drawing back to look into his eyes. _I love you. My John_.

"_Sherlock,"_ he groaned. The Latin declarations were intoxicating and Sherlock knew it, the bastard. He captured Sherlock's lips again but his overgown bunched awkwardly between them. Fumbling slightly, he reached between them and quickly undid his belt. With a bit of maneuvering, he tugged the garment up and over his head, tossing it to one side, before settling comfortably into a long, lingering kiss, his hands returning to claim Sherlock's arse.

Belatedly, John realised that the shutters were still open. He reached back with one hand to tug them closed.

"Sherlock, people will talk," he grumbled. Sherlock hadn't escaped death at the hands of the Inquisition only to be hauled in front of a magistrate for sodomy.

Sherlock bent his lips to John's throat. "Then let's give them plenty to say," he teased lightly.

John's eyes fluttered shut. "I'm sure there's an old lady watching us on a balcony across the river."

He could almost feel Sherlock's eyeroll. It was reassuring. "The sun is behind us, there are no lights burning to illuminate us, we are both wearing our shirts...unless you would like to bugger me out the window, there will be none the wiser."

John opened his eyes and huffed a laugh. He squeezed Sherlock's arse with both hands, rolling his hips under him. Sherlock gave a hum of satisfaction and, bracing himself against the windowsill, began to ride John properly in a slow and delicious rise and fall.

"Oh, you feel good," John sighed, kissing a bare spot of chest, qualms about voyeurs pushed aside, and gripped Sherlock's gorgeous arse tight, thrusting up to meet his welcoming body.

Sherlock groaned. "Mm, you too. I love how you feel inside me, John." He gripped John's hair, tugging his head to one side, and tormented the soft skin below his ear, sucking on it hard enough to leave a mark. John groaned. God, it felt good.

A thought nagged at the back of his mind and with a sigh he acknowledged it. They really ought to move. He caught Sherlock's lips in another kiss, looking up into astonishingly blue eyes, the pupils wide with lust. He groaned. Maybe a bit too loudly. Yes. Ought to. Move.

"Come on, Sherlock," he said. "Bed." Sherlock was altogether unhelpful in this endeavour, and merely rolled his hips. John growled and, cupping Sherlock's arse, pushed himself up. He staggered forward, breeches and hose halfway down his thighs, Sherlock's legs locked around his hips, arms about his shoulders. Sherlock groaned and kissed him fiercely. John didn't make it to the bed and slammed him up against the wall. That would do.

"Going to fuck you here," he grunted, bracing him against the wall and snapping his hips up sharply, sliding in tight, delicious heat.

"Yes," hissed Sherlock, capturing his mouth. With grunted moans and pants of exertion, John drove up into him, hard and rough, making Sherlock groan in return and throw his head back against the wall, pinned to it, impaled on John's cock.

Finally, as John's thighs threatened to give way, he managed to swing Sherlock around and this time they made it to the bed. He disengaged, threw Sherlock onto his back and, pausing only briefly to discard his own shirt, followed after him, kissing his face, his throat, pulling aside his shirt to mouth at his chest then hooking his legs up about his hips and entering him again, swift and deep.

"John," Sherlock gasped and gripped him tightly.

John shut his eyes for a moment to steady himself. He opened them again to find Sherlock staring back at him, a look of such..._affection_ and _want_ on his face that it took John's breath away.

"Ah my sweet, my love, lovely Sherlock," he murmured, moving forward for a kiss. He stayed deep inside as they explored each other's mouths again, moving with small, shallow thrusts, the pleasure a slow, delicious burn. He reached between them, seeking Sherlock's hitherto neglected prick. It was very hard, slick at the head, the foreskin drawn back, and John closed his palm about it, stroking the silky flesh gently. Sherlock moaned against John's mouth, clenched his hands about his upper arms. John drew back, lifting up to see his expression, to meet his gaze. His lips curled into a smile as Sherlock blinked back at him with lust-glazed eyes.

John smiled fondly, heart full, flesh humming. "All right?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide and dark, his thighs trembled about John's waist. "My John." He rocked onto John's cock. "More- need more-"

An unintelligible sound came out of John's mouth as Sherlock's words sent a wave of desire washing over him. He brushed an open-mouthed kiss over full lips and began to move, pace quickening, as he stroked Sherlock in time with his thrusts. Sherlock clutched at him desperately, gasping with arching back-

"_John_," he cried. "I'm close, close- _Oh-"_ And he tensed, sinews and muscles straining, as he spent, warm and sticky between John's fingers. John felt his own climax close upon him, Sherlock's body clenching about him with near-painful pleasure. White spots flickered in front of his eyes. He bowed his head against Sherlock's shoulder, felt shaking hands on his upper arms and Sherlock's chest heaved against his. Sherlock gave a deep groan of satisfied pleasure and stroked a hand down John's ribs. Taking that as encouragement to continue, John thrust urgently, seeking his own completion, that cliff off which to tumble, spiralling into pleasure and blinding nothingness. He fell, gasping and shattering - into Sherlock, against Sherlock, his warmth surrounding him, limbs grasping him, catching him, keeping him. Slowly the world returned, in the form of a long, lean body wrapped about his own, lips at his temple, a hand stroking his hair, and soft words at his ear. His breath evened, his pulse calmed. He smiled.

_"La petite mort_," Sherlock murmured. "The little death."

John withdrew carefully and shifted off Sherlock slightly, content not to move any further for some time. He gazed down at his lover, kissed his shoulder, marveled again at his good fortune.

"Indeed, that about describes what you do to me," he said, smoothing tousled curls from a flushed, beautiful face. "My brilliant Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, one of his proper, private smiles that only John was privy to. He gave a very satisfied sigh. "That, John Watson, was exceptional."

John tucked his smile into the curve of Sherlock's bicep. "_You_ were amazing," he said. "That...I'll take my lessons more seriously in future if that's the reward."

Sherlock chuckled, a deep rumble close to John's ear. "You should learn so that my colleague and lover is not an illiterate peasant who cannot read."

"And so I can send you saucy letters when you are away, and read the ones you send me," added John.

Sherlock kissed his hand then. "Oh. Speaking of away," he said suddenly and rolled over to reach for his satchel beside the bed, giving John a good view of perfect, plump arse. He rolled back and handed John a folded piece of parchment. "One of my informants passed me this today," he said.

Curious, John opened the paper and found himself looking at a sketch of Harriet. He looked at Sherlock sharply.

"Genoa," said Sherlock. "The likeness is promising."

"Yes," said John. He ran a finger over the round cheeks of the girl in the picture. It could be Harriet. "Um. When can I go?"

Sherlock dragged him closer and hooked a leg over his. There was something John liked very much about feeling Sherlock's flaccid prick nestled against his own. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder once more.

"I suppose you'll insist on going yourself?" Sherlock sighed, settling against him.

"I'd rather see her with my own eyes," said John, stroking his palm over Sherlock's arm.

"Hmm. Very well, we'll leave tomorrow. There is some work I can do in Genoa anyway. It won't be a wasted trip, even if it turns out not to be Harriet."

John grinned and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

Sherlock huffed. He circled John's nipple with his forefinger. "Don't particularly wish to let you out of my sight," he muttered pensively.

John tugged him closer and pressed a fierce kiss to his forehead. "No. I don't wish that either."

Sometime later they sat together in their little room, cleaned, fed, and now whiling away a little time in companionable silence before sleep. Sherlock was tuning his new _viola di braccio_ and John was studying the latest book Sherlock had given him to read, every now and then asking Sherlock the meaning of a word, a sentence, or a pronunciation.

They both looked up at the sharp knock on the downstairs door, the sounds of voices and feet hurrying up the stairs. Sherlock was on his feet, pulling on his cloak, even as there was a rap on the door to their room. John checked for his sword behind the door. He'd bought it en route to Florence, traded for Moran's. It was plain and simple, easily concealed beneath a cloak, and wouldn't attract attention.

Their landlady, Giovanna di Francesca, was at the door. She was barely John's age but a hard life working the streets and bedchambers of Florence had left her looking far older: face lined, teeth missing, once-golden hair a dirty yellow and shot with grey, done up with nets and braids, not covered like the women's in Baskerville. Now in her retirement, giving way to younger, prettier girls, she lived with her old mother in the building she had bought with her savings. She turned a blind eye (and ear) to John and Sherlock's proclivities. Perhaps she did not mind as tenants two capable men who would not make unwanted demands upon her person. Certainly it helped that Sherlock paid handsomely for the room, above what was necessary, and that on one night John had sent off an old _ruffiano_ with a punch in the nose and the promise of more if he bothered the nice Signora again. Giovanna's mother cooked fine meals and if she sometimes pinched Sherlock's bottom and winked at John, well, what harm did it do?

"Signora?" asked John. His Italian was improving.

"Signore Colmer," Giovanna said in greeting, using John's new pseudonym. "One of your clients." She rolled her eyes and beckoned someone up the stairs. It was a lad dressed in the livery of a nobleman's footman.

"Signore?" he asked, cap in hand. "My master wishes Signore Sigerson to attend upon him, if it please you."

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock looming at his side. "He's here; speak up, lad."

"It is a very delicate matter...there has been an unfortunate - someone has died, will you come? Quickly, please? Before _la forza _arrive? My master is innocent but- the room was locked from the inside-" He crossed himself.

John looked over his shoulder. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up and John could see the excitement dancing in his eyes. "Shall we, John?" he asked.

John grinned. "Come on, then," he said and grabbed his sword and cloak. Soon they would be racing through the streets, veins thrumming and hearts racing, and then Sherlock would be incandescent, stunning John with his observations and astounding him with his deductions and sheer brilliance. For his part, John would stand there, stern and respectable, and soothe old ladies and bow to nobility and explain "please excuse Signore Sigerson" when Signore Sigerson forgot himself. He would do his best to follow along and ask questions in the hope that one would spark that look of approval in Sherlock's eyes. And, when needed, John would draw his sword or his dagger or plant his fist and bring Sherlock home, safe and whole, back to his room, back to his bed. Because this was their life now and it suited John to have it exactly as it was.

The end.


End file.
